The Allure of the Dark Angel
by white raven
Summary: Grima/OC. A woman comes to Edoras and sees the soul behind the malevolent face of Grima Wormtongue
1. Light the candle, John

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
**************************************************************************** *********  
  
Chapter One - Light the candle, John  
  
The clearest night skies are to be had in autumn. I stand in the doorway of my simple home to admire the indigo veil that covers the world in a swathe of twinkling stars. The cool evening air swirls around my ankles, and my nostrils twitch at the scent of approaching winter, the brittle smell of dead leaves, the pungent smoke of peat fires.  
  
It is quiet in the village so late at night, and I savor the moments of peace that find me here admiring the silvery face of the moon as it hangs, pregnant and full in heaven's vault. Her light casts shadows on the ground and over my wrinkled hands as I raise my arms in silent benediction. She is the lodestone of feminine power, the sister force of the ancient seas that still ebb and flow in the cloudy recesses of my memories.  
  
I am old. And I am tired. My daughter watches me with the eyes of a hunting falcon these days, ever alert to any sign of fatal weakness. I taught her well. She is now the village's healer, renowned throughout the territory for her skills. They have surpassed mine, and there is little I can hide from her; the occasional shortness of breath, the hours of exhaustion that leave me bedridden, as if I once again traversed the Riddermark on the back of an injured mare, weary and hopeless of finding her father again.  
  
She is much like him in aspect, more like me in spirit. Hair blacker than a crow's wing, with fine bones and small stature, she is lovely, though I know I see her from the biased eyes of a loving parent. I am of Gondorian peasant stock, and while age and time have bent my back, I am still taller than she, the gray of my hair hiding what had once been locks the color of a bloody sunset.  
  
I sigh, rubbing my aching hands where the joints have swelled with the bone sickness, crippling me so that I can no longer hold a vial or grind herbs for a healing draught. I used to curse this insidious disease, helpless to do nothing but wait as it twisted the very parts of my body that defined who I was. Now, I no longer rant, having found a measure of peace in the slow march of days while I wait to join the one I lost.  
  
I again look skyward to the swollen moon, her milky, blue luminescence bathing the dusty pathways and whispering trees that lead into the village. I used to see her aspect in my lover's guileful eyes, heavy lidded with dark machinations and a sorrow deeper than silence. I miss him to the depths of my soul and often wonder how the ageless, elven wife of the Gondorian king will survive the passing of her loved one at his appointed time. Sometimes, immortality is a curse of the damned.  
  
I have been a widow twice. I never grieved the death of my first husband. I still grieve the death of my second. He never truly left me, remaining instead to entwine within the strands of my daughter's dark hair and dart through my son's piercing eyes. Still, my bed is empty, my heart is hollow. And so I wait, quietly eager for my moment to pass through the gates between worlds. I know he lingers there, a patient shade, biding time until I join him again. Until then, I will continue to gaze at the pallid moon and see his vulpine features in the drifting shadows of her celestial face. And remember.  
  
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Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a Loreena McKinnett song, Skellig. The first stanza goes like this:  
  
Light the candle, John The daylight's almost gone. The birds have sung their last. The bells call all to Mass. 


	2. A pearl of exceeding beauty

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
**************************************************************************** *********  
  
Chapter Two - A pearl of exceeding beauty  
  
They came for me at dawn, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves on the well-trod ground in front of my door. I had just placed three loaves of bread to cool on my table, and was giving instructions to my initiate, Sunniva, on how to brew a tea of saxifrage, when I heard the thunder of horsemen. I barely had time to open the door before a strong, hale voice called out, "Lo, the house! We seek Maeve, widow of Ceolwulf, son of Eafa."  
  
The sight that greeted me brought forth old memories of the first days when I met my husband. Rohirrim, a company of eight, dressed in riding leathers and mail, wreathed my hut in a swirl of dust and the pungent scent of horse sweat. After the many years of living among them, and being married to one of them, I remained impressed with their bearing. Even the lowliest soldier attained a certain regal presence when seated on the back of his favorite horse.  
  
The foremost horse knight, a stately warrior with the pale hair and carved cheekbones typical of Eorl's descendents, alighted from his mount and came to stand before me, helmet tucked under his arm. His cool gray eyes were curious and narrowed with speculation as he perused me. I felt Sunniva's presence , nervous and tense, as she watched the riders from behind the scant protection of my shoulder.  
  
"I am Swidhelm, commander of this company. We journey from Edoras, seeking a healer called Maeve, once the initiate of Blind Udela of Gondor."  
  
Behind me, Sunniva gasped in surprise and awe, and my own brows rose. Why would King Theoden send house warriors to the rim of the Mark in search of a lowly village medicine woman?  
  
"I am Maeve. What news from Edoras?"  
  
There was no mistaking the look of relief that passed through Swidhelm's eyes, or the easing of stance in his soldiers. I was used to such a reaction. I lived among a warlike people in a time of strife. The injured and the dying were often more numerous than the healthy and the living. The arrival of a healer was always welcomed and looked upon as good fortune. Still, this was strange, as there were numerous physicians who dedicated their lives and skills to the health of the royal household.  
  
Swidhelm scraped a stray lock of hair away from his features and the gray eyes had turned from speculative to disquieted. "The Third Marshal has been ill, brought low by a cursed sickness that refuses to loosen its hold upon him. The royal physicians have been unsuccessful in healing him."  
  
His chiseled face sharpened with frustrated anger as he continued. "Those idiot leeches know nothing! They chant and pour tea down his throat, bleed him until he's nearly a corpse and then say he will improve."  
  
I frowned. Udela never held with bleeding and passed that philosophy on to me. What sense was there in sucking the life essence out of a sick man to heal him, when the loss of blood from an injury would kill a healthy warrior?  
  
The commander continued with his explanation. "It has reached the ears of the king that you have successfully dealt with this type of sickness. And Udela's fame did not die with her. We have been ordered to bring you to Edoras."  
  
And so it was that I found myself frantically packing a satchel with my essentials and some of my herbals. I sent Sunniva to her father with the message that I would be traveling to Edoras with no idea of when I would return. Sunniva, who was young and soon to marry, was welcome to my home during my absence if she tended my garden and took care of my horses.  
  
Swidhelm stood within the doorway of my house and watched as I tossed small leather bags of dried herbs into my sack, along with tiny pots of aromatic oils. There was no doubt that the royal physicians had their own stores, but I am particular with my ingredients and exacting with my skill, often to Sunniva's chagrin. I trusted my own stores more than anyone else's.  
  
I threw the watchful soldier a glance as I gently cradled a small grimoire to my breast before wrapping it carefully in my only other shift and placing it into the satchel. "Tell me his symptoms so I may know what to expect when we arrive."  
  
"Pain in the chest and labored breathing, as if he's run the Gap without stopping. He coughs up vile yellow fluid and tires easily with the fever."  
  
I was regrettably familiar with the illness. Lung Heat. It had killed many here in the redoubt, mostly the weak, the elderly and the very young. It was a debilitating, wasting sickness that tended to linger, resurrecting itself with every day of damp, cool weather. Both Sunniva and I had worked hard to control and conquer it. The cauldron that hung in my hearth contained the saxifrage tea that Sunniva had brewed, a relief for old Acha who still suffered with the hacking cough.  
  
I was soon ready, my wool cloak tossed over my shoulders, my satchel in hand. Swidhelm, on my request, had ordered one of his men to saddle my favorite mare, Cynwise, for the journey and she waited patiently with the other horses. I embraced a teary-eyed Sunniva briefly and mounted my mare. I did not look back. My house was simply that, a house. Home is where the heart resides. And mine still wandered.  
  
We traveled hard for three days, stopping only to rest the horses and sleep in short intervals. We ate while riding; hard bread and cheese that kept the belly from growling but did nothing to pleasure the tongue. By the time I caught my second glimpse of Edoras rising majestically on its wind- blasted plateau, I was sore and stiff from too many hours spent in the saddle and longing for a hot meal.  
  
We were greeted with enthusiasm, Swidhelm and his men welcomed with offers of warm ale and warmer women by their comrades in arms. They nodded respectfully to me, obviously aware of who I was and the reason for my presence.  
  
I was escorted by the commander into the Great Hall, with its elaborate carvings and great hearth. A woman, as fair and lovely as a spring morning, came forth to greet us. Dressed in the rich, elaborate garments befitting a member of the royal family, she was the epitome of queenly bearing, despite her obvious youth. I guessed her at no more than a handspan of years younger than I, but that proud carriage lent her a more mature air. The blood of kings obviously ran in this maid's veins and I knew I gazed at Eowyn, daughter of Eomund of Eastfold and sister to the very ill Eomer.  
  
I bowed , as did Swidhelm, and was taken aback when the Lady of Rohan grasped my hands with heartfelt gratitude.  
  
"You will never know how relieved we are to see you, Maeve of Gondor. My uncle is with Eomer now. Will you come to his chambers and see him? I will have rooms prepared for you at that time."  
  
Maeve of Gondor. I had resided in the Riddermark for nearly as long as I lived in the White City. I had married one of its citizens and now took care of one of its villages. Yet, I would always be of Gondor in the eyes of the Rohirrim. Such were the ways of a singular people. Tribal and closed, no matter their nobility.  
  
I squeezed her fingers in reassurance, seeing the same look of concern and fright that I have seen on the face of every parent, child and sibling with a sick loved one. "Be at ease, my lady. I've seen this illness many times before. It is treatable." I refused to say it was not always curable.  
  
She smiled and released my hands, releasing Swidhelm from his escort duty to return to his men for that promised ale and female company. Eowyn beckoned me to follow her and we crossed the main room of the Great Hall, walking towards another set of heavily carved doors near the empty throne.  
  
I am neither a tracker, nor a hunter, nor a fighter, but I know when I'm being watched. The fine hairs at my nape rose in warning and I paused a moment to look around me. Shadows of firelight played along the walls and across the planked floor of the dimly lit hall. One of those shadows detached itself from the others, moving with purpose to stand independent of its mates.  
  
I slowed to a complete halt, both captivated and revolted by the man who watched us. Draped in rich, but filthy dark furs and Haradrim silk, he tracked our progress with pale, milky eyes. I had never seen such a creature, especially among the long-boned, blonde beauty of the Rohirrim.  
  
This man was small in stature, eye-level to me at first glance, and I did not possess the elegant height that graced women such as Eowyn. Oily black hair fell in disarrayed tangles around a waxen face that bore deep lines of contempt and malice around the mouth and across the forehead. There was a feral, haunted look to him, as if he were a rat caught in room full of starving cats. And he looked ill, as if plagued with a liver blood disease.  
  
He stared at me for a moment with a kind of resentful curiosity before settling his gaze on the king's niece. For a moment, those light, sunken eyes flickered briefly and I caught the expression in them. I had seen it before, that avaricious, hungry look. My husband used to wear it when, deprived of ale or sweet wine for long stretches, he would near worship a goblet or tankard at the village mead hall. This creature watched Eowyn in such a manner.  
  
The Lady of Rohan stopped, noticing the turn of my gaze, and a hard shudder wracked her stiffening frame, even as her fine features twisted with disgust. "Pay him no mind, Maeve of Gondor. That is my uncle's counselor, Grima, son of Galmod. Also known as Wormtongue."  
  
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Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from The Pearl by Kahlil Gibran - Said one oyster to a neighboring oyster, "I have a very great pain within me. It is heavy and round and I am in distress." And the other oyster replied with haughty complacence, "Praise be to the heavens and to the sea, I have no pain within me. I am well and whole both within and without." At that moment a crab was passing by and heard the two oysters, and he said to the one who was well and whole both within and without, "Yes, you are well and whole; but the pain that your neighbor bears is a pearl of exceeding beauty."  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 


	3. The Face of Total Need

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
**************************************************************************** *********  
  
Chapter Three - The Face of Total Need  
  
In my years of service as an initiate, I soon lost my reverence and awe for the aristocracy. Noble blood was simply that; blood. Whether a man was born between the thighs of a whore or a queen, he was still at Nature's mercy, prone to illness, often childlike in his suffering. Healers of any skill soon made no distinction between the classes when fighting to lower a fever, save a laboring woman from drowning in her own birthing blood or cleaning vomit from the floor. Udela, an outcast from a high-ranking family had taught me that.  
  
"Straighten your shoulders, girl. And raise your head. These people live and breath and die, just as you and I do. Show your respect, not your obeisance. Crawling on your belly only breeds contempt in others."  
  
So it was with that philosophy ingrained within me that I entered the Third Marshal's bedchamber, streaked with dirt and reeking of horse sweat, but unmoved by the resentful, haughty stares of the king's physicians.  
  
Were this not my profession, I would have spun away in revulsion and emptied my stomach in the shadowed corridor. The room reeked of sickness, a noxious mix of urine, smoke, sweat and phlegm. The air hung heavy and still, saturated with the scent of unwashed bodies and the cloying, metallic smell of blood. The moment I was allowed some control in this pit, the shuttered windows would be thrown open and the fire restarted. 'Twas no wonder the king's nephew had been brought so low. His chamber was fetid with disease.  
  
I watched as Eowyn slid gracefully to her knees at her brother's bedside and lifted his fingers to her lips. He lay quiet in the bed, unaware of her loving touch, lost within the labor of fighting for breath as his lungs filled with mucus. He seemed diminutive beneath the mountain of furs piled atop him and the only color in his gaunt features lay across his cheekbones, red flags of fever that surely burned hot through his bones. Oh yes, this was indeed Lung Heat. And considering his current surroundings, I didn't think the physicians could kill him off any faster.  
  
Eowyn turned to me, her eyes bright with tears and a fierce determination to conquer and destroy the sickness holding dominion over her brother. "Can you help him, Maeve?"  
  
Honesty is a double-edged sword. Swung carelessly and you risked lopping off your own arm. Disregarded, and you risked someone else cutting it off for you. I chose my words carefully.  
  
"This isn't unfamiliar to me, my lady. Lung Heat is a wasting disease. I've treated it before. Fortune has favored me in many cases, not in others. But I assure you, I will do everything in my power to help your brother."  
  
It was all I could offer. I healed. I did not perform miracles. And this woman did not deserve false hope. Nor would she accept it. It was obvious to me that this was an intelligent, astute creature, very much so, and likely underestimated because of her gender. I wouldn't make such a mistake.  
  
She must have seen something in my expression, my respect for her, a recognition that she was a force to be reckoned with and she smiled at me in response before the mask of icy regality once again settled over her features and she rose, still clinging to Eomer's hand.  
  
"What do you need?"  
  
My shoulder ached from the weight of my satchel and I set it down at my feet before answering. "Room to work. There are too many people in here. Also, summon your serving women to bring clean linens and water."  
  
She nodded once and turned a haughty gaze to the ministers and friends who crowded the room. "You may leave. I will summon you if necessary."  
  
There was a subtle shift among the crowd, stiffening postures that bespoke a silent protest. Whether it was against a woman ordering them from the room or against the instructions of a healer they felt beneath them, I couldn't say. One man stepped forward, tall and angular in flowing robes. I glanced at his hands. Narrow and elegant, with long callused fingers devoid of any ornamentation. One of the physicians.  
  
"My lady, this...woman's presence isn't necessary. We are perfectly capable of taking care of your brother. What could a village healer possibly offer..."  
  
Eowyn cut him off with a clipped, "The king himself has summoned Maeve of Gondor, or have you forgotten, Sabert?"  
  
He flushed at her admonishment but refused to give ground, opening his mouth to again argue. This time he was stopped by a different voice, one that immediately caused a rippling tide of fear and dislike to pulse in the squalid chamber. Once again I felt the tingle at my nape and turned slowly to stare at the figure lurking in the open doorway.  
  
She had called him Wormtongue, and at that moment I understood why. An image formed behind my eyes, a reaction to that sibilant voice, of a thin white worm writhing across my bare skin, and the muscles of my belly contracted. Silk rustled against itself as the king's counselor's crept into the room on silent feet. He moved with a hunched, almost apologetic motion, belied only by the calculating gleam in those pale eyes. A creature of two faces. One seemingly beaten and unsure, the other potent and malevolent. I glanced at the others in the room, interested to note the mixture of fear and contempt that warred for dominance on their faces. They watched him as one watches an exceptionally vile and poisonous serpent, cautious of coming too close but looking for any chance to kill it.  
  
And the son of Galmod knew it. It showed in the faint, sneering twist of his lips, the brief flash of an empty smile. "I believe the king's niece has issued something more than a request, physician. To argue might be thought an act of treason, yes?"  
  
The room throbbed with a waiting tension and Sabert blanched at the implied threat. Bowing swiftly to Eowyn, he walked to the door, making a wide berth around the watching counselor. A parade of others soon followed and the chamber was quickly emptied, leaving only the ailing Eomer, Eowyn, me and Wormtongue.  
  
There was no mistaking the loathing in her voice when she addressed him. "What do you want, Grima? You shouldn't be here."  
  
The byplay between these two was curious. There was a connection here, though I could only guess at its nature. I doubted it was sexual, though the predatory cast of the counselor's face revealed a wish for such a thing. However, it was obvious to anyone with eyes, that Eowyn felt the same revulsion for Grima Wormtongue that others did. And there was no doubt they were neither friends nor confidents. Outcasts, perhaps? Brought together by an understanding that they were both isolated and disregarded in similar fashon but for different reasons?  
  
I shrugged inwardly. Such musings were best left to seers and those within this family. I was an outsider here, brought to the Meduseld to fulfill a role, nothing more. I lifted my satchel and carried it to the bed. It was time to begin the work for which I was summoned. A very ill man awaited my wandering attention.  
  
I began to peel back the foul smelling furs from Eomer but paused at the sensation of being touched. When I turned, it was to find Wormtongue standing so close as to lift strands of my hair with his breath. Something within me warned that to step back would be an acknowledgement he purposefully sought. Proof that I, like others, found him immensely repellant.  
  
I wouldn't lie to myself. There was something about him that smacked of ill will, a diseased shadow that seemed to hover around him and made others barely able to suppress the urge to sketch protective wards in the air with their fingers. My intuition cried out to move away, that to be so close invited a sleeping danger to awaken and notice me.  
  
Still, a smaller, stronger part was fascinated by this unpleasant man. I was confused by it, feared it. I had made so many wrong decisions in my life, led by a judgement that was unbearably flawed and carried its repercussions to the present day. What thing, gone broken and awry within me, would cause me to do other than turn away in revulsion from something that threatened every survival instinct I possessed?  
  
I met those slitted eyes with a guarded look and did not move away. Something flickered within his gaze, surprise, suspicion. He was so close I could see the spidery blue veins beneath the translucent skin of his face, the sunken grayness beneath his eyes and the traces of dried blood gathered in the cracks of his lower lip. He was ill with something other than the lesion of shadow swirling around him. This was purely physical and my healer's eyes only confirmed what I suspected at my first sight of him. He suffered a blood disease, long-term. Controllable but incurable. And judging by his state, it was untreated.  
  
The whisper of his voice grazed my skin and slithered across my throat. "A peasant healer from the redoubt. Tell me, leech, does the king waste his time calling you to the Lord Eomer's bedside?"  
  
I felt certain I heard a tinge of hopefulness in the question. This creature held no love for the sickly Third Marshall laying silent in his bed. Once again, I weighed my words carefully, keeping my tone respectful but noncommittal .  
  
"Only the king can say for certain, Lord Grima. I can only do my very best with the skills and knowledge I possess."  
  
That cunning stare remained on me for a moment longer as he measured my answer. Once again, a thin colorless smile twisted his lips before he turned away and gave Eowyn a brief bow. She returned it with a frozen stare.  
  
"Then I wish you good luck and good fortune, Maeve of Gondor. We will keep the Third Marshall in our thoughts. Report to me of any changes. The king will be most eager to hear news."  
  
He bowed again before leaving the chamber. "My lady." And his tone was polite and respectful and so filled with a wanting as to make me blush and turn my eyes away. I did not miss how the White Lady of Rohan blushed as well, though she did not drop her eyes from the counselor's retreating back, and there was a marked sneer on her fine-boned features.  
  
I made no comment, feeling any would be unwelcome, and soon I saw her visibly shake off the remnants of his presence from her person. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and faced me with a determined look, eager to see her brother made whole again. "Let's begin, shall we?"  
  
**************************************************************************** *********  
  
Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by William S. Burroughs - "The face of evil is always the face of total need."  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 


	4. The Hands of the Virtuous

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
**************************************************************************** *********  
  
Chapter Four – The hands of the virtuous  
  
Were I to abandon my role as healer and embrace the role of a spy, one of the first places I'd glean my information in a high-born household would be the kitchens. They are the gathering places of those who say little but hear much as they attend their duties waiting upon their masters and mistresses.  
  
Servants may remain quiet when moving among the noble ranks, but they gossip among themselves. And they know a great deal that goes on in these families; everything from what bastard child was sired by what nobleman to the political manueverings of an ambitious thane.  
  
I sat at my usual place in the Meduseld's vast kitchen, watching with interest as the cook, Elswide, stripped the feathers from a dead goose with breathtaking speed. She talked as quickly as she plucked, breaking through the running stream of her conversation with me to admonish one of the army of scullery maids who worked with single-minded purpose to provide meals for King Theoden's court.  
  
"Here!" Elswide called out, pointing a down-covered finger at a young girl peeling potatoes. "Mind your fingers with that knife. We'll be servin' those up with a bit of blood in the sauce if you keep peelin' that way." She waved another, older maid over. "Leofe, show her how to do it proper."  
  
She turned back to me, knowing her commands would be obeyed immediately and without question. I hid my smile by taking another bite of the lentil soup before me. In her middle years, and wider than a mare's backside, Elswide ruled this hot, fragrant domain with the same firm hand that Theoden ruled Rohan. Shield maidens were admirable in their bravery, envied for their nobility but I had no doubts that this low-born cook could command a company of eored as easily as she did her underlings.  
  
The now stripped goose was tossed into a nearby basket and immediately replaced with another one. Feathers flew as Elswide gave me an arched smile. "I hear tell the Third Marshal is up and about, feeling good enough to make a right nuisance of himself among the household. How long before he's fit to patrol the Mark?"  
  
I popped a piece of hard cheese into my mouth and ate before answering. "He can ride now if he wants. It is Sabert who thinks he isn't ready. And the lady Eowyn is being cautious." I shrugged. "'Tis natural on both parts. The chief physician is reclaiming his place, and a sister fears for her brother. The exercise would do much to improve Eomer's strength and mood, but it won't harm him to wait a little longer."  
  
The cook snorted in disbelief. "Can't tell him that, I wager. That boy was near born on a saddle, as any Rohirrim. He'll be foaming at the mouth if he can't ride soon. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Sabert's words were tossed to the side and we saw the King's nephew riding with Theodred at first light tomorrow."  
  
I was inclined to agree with her. In the near month I had resided at the Meduseld, Eomer had improved at a rapid pace. The thick, hacking cough was gone and the fever had not resurfaced, even during the mornings when the mists lay heavy and damp on the plains, and dripped from the timbers of buildings. I, with the help of several willing serving women, had worked hard to crush the Lung Fever polluting his body. His chamber, once filthy and acrid with smoke was swept clean on a daily basis, the fires restarted each day and the shutters thrown open to let in the clean air. I maintained my order that he sleep in a half-reclined position to ease the labor of his strengthening lungs, and near begged Eowyn not to let the physicians bleed him. She had taken my advice without question and the king's healers ground their teeth but didn't argue.  
  
I had not made friends of these three, but my reasons for being here did not involve socializing with fellow leeches, nor was my purpose to supplant any one of them. I had trained with a woman famed for her skills, but I never saw the inside of the guild halls that taught the craft. These men had, and served as healers to the aristocracy for a reason. I was realistic enough to know that my summons was an act of desperation by the king and I was only sought for my ties to Udela and the hope that, through the ghost of her guidance, I could somehow succeed where others had failed. Luck or Providence favored me this time. That and the Rohirric strength that made men such as Eomer formidable in battle. My time here was coming to an end. I still saw the Third Marshal once a day, listened to his breathing and monitored the color of his skin. Beyond that, he was once again the charge of the king's physicians  
  
As if she could follow the path of my thoughts, Elswide asked me a question. "You're near done here. Will you stay in Edoras or return to your village? We could use another healer here. Wulfrune tells me you've worked with her in your free time, and she can use an extra pair of trained hands. The sick and the injured seem to increase each day."  
  
I nodded in agreement. The hours that I was free from succoring Eomer, I spent with Elswide's sister. Wulfrune was a skilled leech in her own right, with a gift for midwifery. When the cook introduced us, there was an immediate recognition between us. We embraced many of the same philosophies and in the short time that I accompanied her on her visits to the lower houses, I learned much and brought that knowledge back with me to my spare chamber in the Meduseld, writing what I had gleaned in the battered pages of my grimoire.  
  
I was fortunate in that Wulfrune was not one to jealously guard her skills and she was free with both her time and her wisdom, imparting many things concerning herbs and surgeries of which I had no prior experience. In this she reminded me a great deal of Udela.  
  
"Be generous with your knowledge, Maeve, and miserly with your pride. Learn from those who know more and are willing to share. And pass on what you have learned to those willing to listen."  
  
Blind but all-seeing was Udela and I lived by her many words. So it was that I had taken Sunniva as my own initiate, and listened with an avid thirst as Wulfrune poured her wisdom into my willing ears. However, I could not stay in Edoras. The village that had welcomed an outlander bride with cautious enthusiasm and now embraced me as one of its own, needed my skills. There were no royal physicians or Wulfrunes living there, only Sunniva, who had not been an initiate long enough to become a full-fledged healer. In the end, my uses here were less important and easily missed. I suspected only one might benefit from my continued presence and he was agile enough in mind to make his own way if I left the proper instructions.  
  
"I must return home. Would that Wulfrune came with me, so much the better." I said with a smile.  
  
Elswide returned the smile and huffed. "Never. That old crone will never leave Edoras. Not the adventuring type." Her tone was scathing, but I heard the deep affection for her elder sister in her voice. Even if Wulfrune suddenly embraced a nomadic way, I suspected that Elswide would do all in her power to convince her to stay. Bonds of kinship, blood and clan were strong among the Rohirrim. They kept close to one another.  
  
I finished my meal and the cook motioned for me to leave my bowl and cup where they sat. "Have Leofe prepare the tray for you. I made the broth especially strong this time. I think your recipe has worked its magic." She gestured to a buxom girl named Beornwyn. "She tells us that Wormtongue has shown more vigor of late."  
  
I slid a glance to the maid, toiling at one of the great hearths as she helped turn a roasting boar on its spit. I found it curious that for one so maligned and despised, Grima Wormtongue was the source of much speculation and whisperings among the maids here. Beornwyn was one of the few women willing to service him. A big boned, voluptuous creature, she possessed a pretty face and hard, flat eyes. When the other maids tittered or shuddered in disgust at the idea of spreading their thighs for the small, sickly counselor, she would shrug her shoulders and in a bored tone say, "What is it to me? One is much the same as the other between the legs. Besides, he does not ask me to look up on him, but takes me from behind. With that, I can put any face to him I choose."  
  
Pragmatic to a fault, and cold beyond measure. I sometimes wondered what the counselor would make of such thoughts. If he even suspected them, and if he did, did he care? It seemed that only I, and in some twisted fashion, Eowyn, found him fascinating in a way that left me puzzled and uneasy.  
  
The broth Elswide spoke of was a special brew, heavy with blood and herbs to strengthen a body weakened from either blood loss or disease. I had administered it to Eomer in the first days of my treatment, in an attempt to correct the damage caused by those who had bled him. I now brought it to Wormtongue on a daily basis.  
  
Leofe brought a small tray with the bowl of hot broth and a set of towels. I took it from her with a nod of thanks, ignoring the faintly appraising, sympathetic look she bestowed on me. I could easily guess her thoughts. Like others in the kitchen, she wondered at my willingness to help the one they called "Snake", and if I, like Beornwyn, had lain with him. They would continue to wonder, as I am far more reluctant to reveal my private thoughts and actions than I am my healing skills.  
  
I hefted the tray to my shoulder with practiced ease, patted Elswide on the arm and promised to return with the tray and bowl shortly. My passage through the Meduseld's dim corridors was no longer unfamiliar and in little time I found myself standing outside a set of doors, ornately carved with the ever-present symbols of horses. I knocked once and waited for a mere space of breaths before one of the doors opened on silent hinges and I stepped inside the chamber.  
  
Spacious and meticulously clean, the room was sparse in its furnishings, sporting a low-slung bed and large storage chest, as well as a small table and single bench. An open window facing east allowed a thin draft to swirl throughout the chamber, barely disturbing the dying fire in the hearth.  
  
I walked to the table and set the tray down gently, feeling the lurking presence of Wormtongue behind me as he watched my actions. As had become the custom between us, he opened the conversation with the same cryptic question.  
  
"Have you come to poison me, leech?"  
  
I turned and clasped my hands in front of me and gave him the same answer as always. "Not today, Lord Grima. Another time, perhaps."  
  
He nodded once and passed me to sit on the bench and swirl the broth gently with his spoon. He grimaced at the scent. "That hag of a cook has made it stronger this time," and he turned truly suspicious eyes in my direction.  
  
"Yes. I asked her to do so. The taste is less pleasant but will have better results." I ran my eyes over his hunched form as he continued to stir the broth. He was much improved from the first time I'd seen him slinking through the shadows of the Great Hall. He was less pale, his lips and cheeks showing faint traces of color, and his gums no longer bled so that pink spittle formed at the corners of his mouth when he spoke. He would never obtain the ruddy glow of his Rohirrim kinsmen, and the oily black hair served only to heighten his pallor, but he no longer looked like a corpse. Still a viper, but one not quite so ill.  
  
I watched him a moment longer as he took a cautious sip and shuddered, but continued eating in a resigned fashion. As he ate, I stoked the fire in the hearth, and slid a small cauldron of water onto the spit to boil. I untied the small pouch at my waist and pulled out a handful of herbs, dropping them into the now hot water. Tendrils of aromatic steam coiled upward from the cauldron, making my eyes water with their astringent smell. I stirred the contents a few times and dropped the cloths I brought with me into the pot. They would soon be put to use as healing compresses.  
  
A few days earlier, Wormtongue had gone riding. While as skilled a rider as any Rohirrim, he was not as quick or adept at avoiding a well-placed kick and his horse had landed a solid one against his thigh, the edge of the hoof laying open the fragile skin. It had taken some effort on my part to convince the counselor to let me see and treat the wound. But I was insistent. Those with this kind of disease were more prone to infection and wounds did not heal as well or as quickly. My comment that he could easily lose that leg if left untreated, finally convince him to reveal the damage. Since then, I had worked to heal the open gash, pleased when it ceased to ooze yellow pus and no longer showed the tell-tale lines of infection.  
  
I have performed this kind of treatment on countless patients, men, women and children. I am not uncomfortable with the sight of the naked form, mine or another's. Neither modesty nor vanity have a place in a healer's thoughts when they tend the wounded. As such, I felt no reservations at seeing Grima Wormtongue unclothed. It was he who had at first balked at the idea of baring his body to my eyes.  
  
His reluctance was unsurprising. This was a man, strong in intellect but weak in body, whose physical shortcomings were so glaringly obvious when compared to Rohan's tall, vigorous folk. Thin blood and what I suspected was Dunlending heritage only heightened these differences. Life for him growing up here would have been difficult. People, no matter their generosity or kindness, held an aversion to that which seemed strange or unlike themselves, no matter the reason. He was maligned and outcast by most for far more than the sly and cunning demeanor that cloaked him in a near impervious armor. I understood the counselor's reluctance but refused to appease it. I intended to treat that wound and used whatever weapon of reason or threat I considered necessary to see it done.  
  
I carefully lifted the steaming towels out of the cauldron with a set of tongs and dropped them into a waiting bowl at my feet. Wormtongue had finished the broth in silence and stood slowly as I approached him. There was a pinched look around his mouth, and his eyes held that now familiar expression of both threat and dread in them. We had performed this simple ritual for a measure of days now and he was still painfully uncomfortable with it. I did not offer comforting words of reassurance, feeling that he would be insulted by such a gesture. Instead, I offered what came most naturally to me, an efficient, detached manner that gave him nothing more than the surety that I knew the business at hand and was concerned only with that.  
  
I stood in front of him, the bowl of hot cloths in my hands. "Are you ready, my lord?"  
  
As usual, he hesitated then nodded once, shrugging out of the heavy furs that held in his body's warmth. I knelt down in front of him and waited patiently as he slowly unlaced his boots and then his trews, revealing thin, muscular legs as pale as the moon's face. I did not dwell on what this would look like to another pair of eyes. Me, kneeling suppliant between the naked thighs of the king's counselor, his eyes glittering with an odd, waiting expression as I placed my hands on the narrow expanse of white leg and moved the hem of his tunic away from the wrapped wound.  
  
A brief, uncomfortable thought flitted through my mind and for the first time in such dealings with this man, I felt myself blush with mortification. What would it be like, I wondered, were the circumstances altered slightly and I found myself in this way before the son of Galmod, crouched not to heal a wound but to render pleasure?  
  
**************************************************************************** *********  
  
Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by H.L. Mencken - "Sin is a dangerous toy in the hands of the virtuous. It should be left to the congenitally sinful, who know when to play with it and when to let it alone."  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net 


	5. A Warmth Hidden in My Veins

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
Chapter Five – A Warmth Hidden in My Veins  
  
The grace of the Meduseld is matched only by her surroundings. Despite the roiling darkness of the east, it was hard not to lose breath at the sight of the White Mountains to the south and the rolling green plains that stretched far to the Westfold and into the Gap of Rohan in the northwest.  
  
I had lived in the land of the Northmen for eight years, having married one of its native sons in an act of impulsiveness that I regret to this day. But my memories of being a horse lord's wife never turned me against this hard, yet beautiful land. And each night, when the citizens of the Golden Hall found their pallets and fell to slumber, I would gather my cloak, find a high place that caught the evening wind and turn my face to the open lands, happy to breathe in the smell of tall grass, the scent of horse and the remnants of sunshine.  
  
At first, I was left in solitude to admire Rohan in her kirtle of stars and moonlight, but was soon discovered by another, also fond of these nighttime trappings and the quiet of a sleeping town. One evening Grima Wormtongue had discovered me sitting with my back against a wall of the Meduseld, staring out across the black sea of waving grasses.  
  
His voice startled me, so quiet were his footsteps that I never heard him approach. "And what remedies do you ponder here in the dark, healer?"  
  
I made to rise from my position and bow but he waved me back in place with an impatient hand, staring down at me, his wan, pinched face half illuminated in the moon's white light. I waited in silence for him to speak, watching with fascination as the curve of his shadow shifted in a restless motion, casting a misshapen darkness across my feet and bent knees.  
  
"You have been here for two nights so far. Why do you not find the peace of your bed at this late hour?"  
  
Both the observation and the question surprised me. Though when I reflect back, that should not have been so. A king's advisor would not only be a man of great intellect but one of keen scrutiny. Little that took place within the Golden Hall, or outside of it, would escape Wormtongue's notice. There was no doubt that each person who passed within the confines of the Meduseld and its immediate vicinity was watched, measured and examined to some degree, no matter their rank or status. So it was that my comings and goings had been noted and now questioned.  
  
In some ways, I found that such interest did not sit well with me. I am used to passing among people with little notice beyond what I could provide in my prescribed duties. Foreign-born though I may be, I was no threat and treated only with a mild curiosity and some friendliness by those who lived here. And if any others had observed my evening activity, they chose not to comment, finding it of little consequence or interest.  
  
Wormtongue remained patient over my long pause but never turned his regard from me. A shorter man than most, he seemed tall and overwhelming within the bulk of his shadow. I kept my voice low, in response to his, though there were none around to hear us.  
  
"I come here to think, Lord Grima. And sometimes to dream, or admire the lands of the Riddermark."  
  
Again a waiting silence as he heard my words and he cocked his head in a curious fashion, reminding me of a carrion bird eyeing the corpse of a prospective dinner. His voice remained even though I felt its tendrils drift into my ears, coaxing a response. Ill favored in looks but blessed with the art of persuasion. And while aware of the motive, I had no wish or need to stand against it.  
  
"And do you look to the land of your kinsman, leech? Feel the call of the White City?"  
  
I smiled at him and then grinned when my expression elicited a startled look. He had not expected that and I wondered when was the last time anyone had looked back at him with other than dislike or distrust. "If you are asking do I miss Minas Tirith, then my answer is no. It has not been my home for many years, my lord."  
  
His curiosity was palpable. I had said little but hinted at much and while I remained in Edoras, within the circle of the royal family, the son of Galmod would make it his business to know more. I had nothing to hide so volunteered the rather dull aspects of my life without hesitation.  
  
"I left Minas Tirith in my seventh year, when I became initiate to Blind Udela. A restless spirit she was and never one to stay in one place long. We traveled much and journeyed throughout Gondor, Rohan and the lands of Ithilien. I've crossed the Haradwaith with her and spent a winter in Umbar among the coastal people."  
  
In the semi-dark, I saw Wormtongue's lined features take on an avid expression, and what he revealed next surprised me as I have never known a Rohirrim to willingly leave hearth and clan for a foreign land. "I lived in Umbar for a short time in my youth and learned a great deal from the Black Numenoreans." He settled one shoulder against the wall where I rested and eyed me with a more benign expression. "And did you practice your healing skills among the folk of the Six Towers?"  
  
I was enthralled. The people of Rohan are not savages by any means, however, their scholars are few and rarely appreciated. More stock was placed in such things as horsemanship, courage in battle, loyalty to kin. All admirable but narrow in view. To find one among them who had seen worlds beyond the grassland borders was rare. I think it was that moment, when I caught a brief glimpse of the many layers that comprised this odd, manipulative creature, that I became bewitched.  
  
My voice softened even more, its tones beckoning Wormtongue to stay a moment longer and speak. His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed in response. "Can you speak Haradaic?"  
  
He nodded, a faint half smile twisting his mouth. "Yes, and Adunaic and Westron. You?"  
  
I shrugged. "Some of each, though I am not fluent." I searched frantically for more to ask. "What did you think of Umbar and its people during your time there?"  
  
Again that wary stare, and I knew he considered my words, weighed them, and wondered if there was a motivation to them beyond simple interest. I waited, my posture languid against the wall, and did not look away. The loosening shift of his shoulders revealed that he saw no threat at the moment, and I smiled again, this time in pleasure that he chose to remain and talk a little longer.  
  
We spoke of Umbar and our travels through the Haradwaith, our experiences with the peoples of that land. We had both encountered the suspicious Narakshi who avoided all save their own and were fiercely independent, the tall, warlike Haradrim with their dark skin and hair who reminded me much of the Rohirrim in their way. It was in Umbar that our experiences were vastly different. The City of Six Towers teemed with so many people as to nearly burst. The Tower Lords, those who could trace their blood to Numenorian descent, ruled with an iron fist. They were the upper classes, wealthy, influential and long-lived. It was among these folk that Grima Wormtongue had spent a portion of his youth, learning the ancient, arcane and likely forbidden knowledge housed in the gleaming towers. My time in Umbar was spent among the fishermen who ecked out their living from the Bay of Belfalas. Often diseased and malnourished, they lived in poverty and squalor, and Udela and I were kept busy both learning the craft from the village healers and helping to tend both the sick and the dying.  
  
My memories of the land of the Haradrim were bleak, tarnished by the harsh reality of spending time among its most destitute denizens. It wasn't until I listened to the words of Grima Wormtongue that I could imagine Umbar in something other than a mantle of dirt and disease. He spoke of her libraries, the trading caravans who brought in cloth, priceless gems and antiquities from the far lands. Great philosophers spoke of treatisies at lavish dinners and women of renowned beauty danced for the Tower Lords in palatial chambers that would put the greatest halls of Minas Tirith to shame.  
  
I listened in absolute silence as he spoke. Neither snake nor lowly worm was this man, but a force of intellect and rhetoric to be wary of and admired, and I doubted even the most skillful of firedrakes could parlay speech with such poetry. Words poured off his tongue like streams of the finest dwarven silver, and somewhere, within the beguiled recesses of my thoughts, I truly understood why Grima, son of Galmod, was called Wormtongue.  
  
The break of the sun over the western plain broke the spell his words had cast over me and I was stunned to realize that we had passed the night in easy conversation. Too tired to notice at the time, but upon recollection I smiled to realize that while Grima spoke much, he said little, careful to reveal only the surface things, and even these intrigued me to no end.  
  
I rose, creaking, to my feet, stiff with cold and the hours spent in the same position. He did not offer a hand to help me, nor did I reach out for one. His eyes, however, were less guarded as he regarded me and there was a more informal tone to his voice when he addressed me.  
  
"You'll have little rest today, Maeve of Gondor. Best find your pallet for a short time before the household awakens."  
  
I wondered if I looked as drawn and tired as he did. He turned to leave, halting briefly when I said "I will bring the poultices and the draught this afternoon, as usual, my lord."  
  
He didn't turn around but acknowledged my words with a quick nod. Again I looked for something to say that would lengthen my time with him. "I come here each evening, Lord Grima, and do not mind company."  
  
His back went rigid in response and I could have bitten my tongue bloody with regret. My overture of friendship had not been well-received. I sighed in disappointment as he walked away, his gait stiff and distant. Well, it seemed that I would once again be alone with my thoughts should I decide to continue my nocturnal meditations.  
  
I passed the remainder of the day in a kind of listless stupor, and the time I spent in the counselor's chamber treating his thigh wound was both tense and distinctly uncomfortable, with him keeping a frozen silence and I unwilling to tread again on forbidden ground as I had done earlier that morning. So it was with great surprise that when I returned to my customary spot to sit and admire the clear night sky, I found Grima waiting, looking with pensive eyes towards the southern lay of the Misty Mountains and Isengard at their feet.  
  
I halted abruptly and bowed, striving to suppress my pleased smile that would no doubt displease him. "A fine night, my lord." I was glad to note that my voice remained even and rather distant.  
  
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and then spoke, his voice a cool, sibilant whisper, easily carried away on the constant wind that spun tangles of black hair across his face and neck. "Shall I tell you of the time I first met Blind Udela?"  
  
And thus began our evening ritual, which soon led to other things, and placed me willingly on a path of self-destruction.  
  
Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Jean Racine - "It's no longer a warmth hidden in my veins: it's Venus entire and whole fastening on her prey."  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net 5) http: 


	6. To Touch the Heavens

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
Chapter Six – To Touch the Heavens  
  
Near the end of my twentieth year I journeyed with Udela into the Riddermark. As restless as the summer zephyrs that drifted across the grasslands, my mentor felt the need to travel again. A season in Minas Tirith had been enough to reawaken the nomad within her.  
  
It was to be my last sojourn with her, being of an age and armed with enough knowledge to embrace my independence as a fully trained wise woman. My choice to accompany Udela had less to do with continuing my education and more to do with my affection for a woman I considered a second mother, and a need to retain a last hold on the history that bound us together for nigh on thirteen years. As Fate would decree, I met my husband on that trip, an event that would steer me toward a rocky path and earn the disappointment of the person whose esteem I held most dear.  
  
Wisdom is a thing hard-won and leaves a scarring mark as it matures. Would that my gift of a healer's hands been paired with the gift of Sight. Had I known then that I would make such a poor choice in the shape of my destiny when I visited the Mark those years ago, I would have refused Udela's request to travel with her and stayed within the walls of the White City.  
  
As it was, we set out for Rohan. Udela had many friends among the Rohirrim, having traveled their lands many times. So we were assured a welcome and lodgings with those involved in the healer community of Edoras. During our visit, I found chance to catch a glimpse of Theoden Ednew riding through the capital toward the Meduseld. Aging and grayed, Rohan's king bore his nobility and strength in the proud set of his shoulders and the ease in which he sat his mount, a spectacular mearas named Snowmane. Renowned for his courage in battle as well as his ability to rule, Theoden was much admired by his people, and I, a visitor to his country, was greatly impressed with his appearance, finding him as splendid as any Steward who held the trust of Gondor. I did not see him again until eight years later, when I returned to Edoras to attend his nephew in his illness. Great was my dismay to note the changes wrought in that length of time.  
  
In the final week of my stay at the Meduseld, Eowyn sent me a message. As a measure of gratitude for my service to the Third Marshal, I was invited to attend dinner at one of the lower tables in the Great Hall. I would have preferred the comfort of the kitchens, but one did not refuse so gracious an offer from the king's niece and I resigned myself to an evening of polite smiles, guarded tongue and curious stares as the clan masters gathered in the Rohirric court for their repast and wondered why a lowly healer was granted the right to be seated among them.  
  
I dressed with care, though my gown and tunic were non-descript, lacking any ornamentation and threadbare at the hem. The garments were serviceable, nothing more, as I was not accustomed to dining with kings and felt no need to spend hard earned coin on something grand that would never be worn. Or so I once thought. The most I could do in way of formality was bind my hair in intricate braids and brush the dried mud from my shoes.  
  
When I entered the hall, it was to find it aglow with the yellow gleam of torches and candles. Rows of trestle tables laden with food spanned its length, and there was the dull roar of conversation as the guests talked among themselves and imbibed quantities of thick ale as they waited for Theoden to make his appearance.  
  
Were I not made of stronger stuff, the noise and stifling heat of the crowd within the Golden Hall might have overwhelmed me but I was used to the gathering of many people, and there was an even mix of women among the warriors so I did not feel so out of place. All ignored me, for which I was glad. I wanted the time to adjust to my surroundings and determine where it was I would be seated when the meal began.  
  
There was a light touch on my elbow and I turned to face the house warrior who brought me to Edoras many weeks past standing before me. Swidhelm smiled and offered me a tankard of ale, bowing briefly in respect and welcome. "Maeve of Gondor, great fortune upon you. The Third Marshal seems whole and hearty now due to your ministrations."  
  
I bowed in return and accepted the tankard, happy to find a more familiar face among the crowd of strangers. Dressed in far more formal garb than I remembered from our journey to the capital, Swidhelm cut an imposing but handsome figure. Like his kin, he was tall and fair-haired with wide shoulders and the hardened hands of a soldier. Time spent beneath the sun had left its mark in the lines that fanned his pale eyes and darkened his face. I noted the standard of his tunic, recognizing it as belonging to the House of Burtoth, one of the more powerful Rohirric families close to the royal blood.  
  
I raised my glass in toast. "Swidhelm of Burtoth, you cut a fine figure this night," and watched as he grinned with pride and some surprise at my knowledge of his house. I drank the ale in a bid to hide my amusement. Foreign though I was, I had lived in Rohan many years and was familiar with the houses and clans. These people took great pride in their histories and alliances. Udela had known this from the start and made certain I knew it as well by the time I made my first sojourn with her into the Mark.  
  
He eyed me with interest, his gaze taking in my plain tunic and the wrap of my hair. I waited, neither blushing nor stammering with maidenly shyness at his perusal. There was little about my appearance that was noteworthy. I was shorter than the Rohirric women for the most part, and not as fair. And I was smaller boned, with eyes as dark as any Haradrim's. In Mina Tirith, I would have passed among the population without a second glance. Here, the differences in my looks were noted more often, given a brief flicker of question, a silent acknowledgement that I wasn't native to Rohan and a quick death to the memory of who I was.  
  
Swidhelm's look was deeper, that of a man who finds something pleasing in what he beholds. Being of flesh and blood and numerous flaws, I welcomed the faint admiration in his eyes. Whether it came from liking the cast of my features and form or seeing the results of my labors in Eomer's good health, I didn't question, choosing to enjoy the moment for what it was and indulge in a bit of light conversation.  
  
"Have you fared well in your time here, Maeve?"  
  
I nodded. "Very well. The king's niece has been kind, his nephew patient during my duties."  
  
I laughed as Swidhelm's brows rose in disbelief and hastened to amend my statement. "Well, patient for the most part. It is hard for such a man to play the invalid for long."  
  
The house warrior's face turned grave for a moment. "Tis good to see him ride and command again. Theodred welcomes his return and we can use every skilled swordsman. Turmoil arises in these lands and many of us have seen feral and unwelcome things breach our borders."  
  
I felt my belly knot with dread at his words. My village rested on the western outland and had weathered many Dunlending attacks over the years. I had lost count of the number of injured I'd treated, or the dead I'd helped prepare for final resting after a skirmish with Dunland's sons. Swidhelm's tone hinted that this was more, something far more profane than the frustrated strikes of a misplaced people.  
  
"Orcs?" I asked, already knowing his answer.  
  
His lip curled in disgust. "Aye, and worse. Uruk-hai," and he spat in the rushes at our feet as I shuddered.  
  
Abominations raped from a tortured Arda, they were the Great Orcs, fierce, violent creatures who could withstand the rays of the sun and reveled in the blood of men and elves. The first time I ever helped prepare the remains of a villager who had fallen to a Uruk attack, there had been little left of the man to mourn. As a healer, I was used to the more vile aspects of warfare and injury that appeared on a broken body. But that day I vomited my breakfast onto the ground and had to lean against the wall for a short time in order to stay upright.  
  
My disgust and horror must have shown clearly for remorse flitted across Swidhelm's weathered features and he touched my arm in apology. "Forgive me. Such news has no place here or now. We gather to eat good food, share company with good comrades and commend the son of Eomund on his returning health."  
  
He smiled and tapped his tankard against mine before taking a long swallow of ale. We made more small talk after that, and he asked me questions about my travels, my training with Udela and the years I had so far spent in the Mark.  
  
"I saw, on our journey to bring you to Edoras, that you rode well. Your mare is a strong, even-tempered mount though she needs more exercise. Would you care to ride with me tomorrow at daybreak? We are bringing in one of the herds for Lord Deorwine. You can watch or even participate if you choose."  
  
I readily agreed, excited at the prospect of letting Cynwise find some momentary freedom to have her head and stretch her legs across the grasslands among the other horses. I had not neglected her during my stay in Edoras, but we never ventured far and were usually alone.  
  
Swidhelm was a good companion and kept most of his attention on me, with only the occasional greeting call or friendly slap on the back for his fellow Rohirrim. Our conversation was easy and natural, and I wondered why such a man had no woman at his side. Courageous, skilled in battle, easy on the eyes and of a high-ranking household, he possessed all the traits desirable to a woman of Rohan. I was on the verge of asking him this very thing when I was interrupted by the swift death of conversation in the Hall, followed by a respectful silence, broken only by the rustle of cloth and scrape of boot heel as the court bowed at the entrance of Theoden.  
  
I hurried to follow suit, though I kept my gaze locked on the hunched figure who shuffled toward Rohan's throne. By listening to the gossip in the kitchens, I knew that the king had been ill, but all my assumptions had not prepared me for what I beheld. I clenched my teeth to keep my mouth from dropping open in shock. What made its slow, creaking way across the hall bore little resemblance to my memory of the stately ruler who rode through Edoras that summer's day eight years ago. To my eyes, Theoden of Rohan had aged centuries, not years, and the mantle of time sat heavy on his hunched shoulders.  
  
I noted Eowyn following close behind him, not touching but hovering protectively in case the king had a mishap on his feeble journey toward the seat of power. Theodred came forward as his father struggled to mount the dais upon which the throne sat and helped him to sit. All could see the disquiet lurking in their eyes as Eowyn's gaze met Theodred's, then passed to her brother who frowned with a mixture of anger and concern.  
  
The occupants of the hall remained in their subservient position, saying nothing but watching the tableau with cringing, half-pitying expressions. It was indeed a terrible thing to see the diminishing of a once virile, heroic figure, and I wondered for how long the king had been in decline.  
  
He waved a palsied hand to the room in general, muttering something I could not understand, but took as a signal to rise and find our places at the tables. Swidhelm tried to steer me toward one of the high tables nearer the throne, but I balked, rightly arguing that my place was among the lower tables. He scowled for a moment, his features relaxing into a more pensive expression when I smiled and let him know I found no insult in being seated at the farthest end of the hall. It was an honor to be here at all. He escorted me to an empty space next to a wealthy horse trader and his pinch- faced wife, bowed and took his leave to find his customary seat among his kinsmen at the front of the hall.  
  
I greeted the trader and his woman politely, made a few remarks to which they both responded and bent to concentrate on the trencher I shared with the daughter of a prosperous merchant. It was difficult not to repeatedly turn my gaze to the throne, and impossible to turn away when I discovered that at some point Grima Wormtongue had entered the Great Hall and was seated on a small stool next to the throne.  
  
Shrouded in his customary rich if dark arraignment, he scanned the crowd of guests, those watchful eyes noting every detail, every expression. Like the king, he did not eat, but would periodically lean forward to whisper something in the old monarch's ear and I was left with the strong impression of a vulture hovering near the carcass of a dying hind, prodding it with its beak on occasion. The image made me shiver and I finally cast my eyes down to the table, disturbed to my very spirit by the thought.  
  
When I looked up again, it was to meet the counselor's gaze. He seemed unsurprised to see me there and gave a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning back to converse with the king or follow Eowyn's movements with a hooded stare. Likely, he would have known beforehand that I would be here. That he made it his business to find out, I still found odd. We met twice a day now, once when I delivered the blood broth to him and in the evenings when we met late at night and he spoke with me in his bardic tongue, and revealed little. While I did not have his trust, nor did I have his suspicion. So his interest in my activities were puzzling. And beguiling.  
  
The meal seemed interminable and I drank far more ale than I was accustomed to. The heat of the Hall lay heavy in the air, no doubt heightened by the amount of spirits swimming in my stomach. When we rose to toast Eomer's continued health, I had to brace a hip against the table so I would not sway. I had a need to clear my head and longed for the cold air outside to breathe and find my bearings. So it was with profound relief that the dinner came to an official end with the king exiting the hall, followed by Eowyn and Wormtongue.  
  
While many guests chose to remain and mill around the hall, speaking with each other, I walked slowly to great doors leading outside, hoping that I could keep my feet and not split my skull falling down the steps that led to the lower courtyard. I thanked Swidhelm when he caught up with me and volunteered his escort.  
  
"Methinks you drank more than customary."  
  
I nodded, careful not to move my head too much as my vision swam and blurred with warning. I was glad to find my voice clear and unslurred, despite my unsteady gait. "Far more. I will have a painful head in the morning."  
  
He laughed, a low, pleasant sound that rumbled from his chest and glittered in his blue eyes. "Drink one of your draughts, healer. I still expect you in the stables at first light, heavy head or no."  
  
I refused his offer to take me to my quarters, assuring him that I was still clear-headed enough to find my way. That and I had no intention of returning there right away, wanting to find my customary nighttime spot and breathe the cool, grass-scented air. I promised to meet him in the stables the following morning and we parted company, he to return to the Hall, I to circle the lower ramparts of the Meduseld and lean against the retaining wall, my face turned to the south and the home of my early youth.  
  
I did not track time, so was unsure how long I had been standing there, enjoying the solitude and the return of most of my senses, when I felt the now familiar lurking presence near me. I no longer bowed when Grima and I met this way in private, having been discouraged numerous times by an impatient wave of his hand. I did lower my head briefly. It was a notion of deference to which I still adhered. He did, afterall, far outrank me, and there is a difference between respect and groveling obeisance.  
  
The moon hung low in the night sky, and I had not expected to see him, as we usually crossed paths much later in the evening.  
  
"I saw your face when the king entered the Hall. You were surprised at his appearance?"  
  
The question was a baited hook and raised an alarm within me. While I may not have seen Wormtongue among the shadows before he came to sit with the king, he had obviously observed me and my reactions, committing them to memory. Something warned me to tread carefully with my answer. This was not casual conversation, but a means to find out just observant I was. I dared not lie. This man was far too cunning and perceptive to be fooled by one.  
  
I turned to look at him with bland features, hoping my eyes did not reveal my wariness. "I was very surprised. I had heard he was unwell. I didn't expect him to be so...frail." I shrugged and attempted to infuse a measure of indifference into my voice. "Of course, it has been nearly a decade since I saw Theoden, king. Much can happen to a man in that time."  
  
Wormtongue's eyes narrowed for a moment as he held my gaze, and the urge to look away almost overwhelmed me. Again, I saw the image in my mind of the perching vulture and dying hind. I may not have heard a single word uttered between the two men but there had been something foul that hovered around them, a cloud of deception and malice.  
  
"You see more than you admit, Maeve of Gondor." And Wormtongue's voice was clipped and very cool.  
  
"It is part of my vocation, my lord. Illness comes in many forms. Sometimes you must look hard to find it."  
  
He moved closer and I felt the conflicting sensations of wanting to step back and yet lean into him. Caught within the shadows of the Meduseld's wall, he was only half revealed by the moon's light and it sharpened his sunken features into forbidding lines. A healer's eyes see people in a different manner. Where most saw Wormtongue as an uncomely, sometimes grotesque being, I saw only a man with a debilitating illness, one that left its mark on his face, skin and ultimately his frame. I could appreciate the health and vigor of a blonde Rohirrim, having been beguiled by one into marriage. But age and experience had left me with a different appreciation and I now found myself drawn to a clever mind and even more clever tongue. I was unsure which was worse, and lamented my inability to turn my fascination toward a less dangerous man. It seemed I would never learn from my mistakes.  
  
His voice warmed a fraction as he spoke again, and I could only assume he found my answers, if not wholly believable, at least adequate for the time being. "You are returning to your village soon, yes?"  
  
I rested a hip against the retaining wall, watching as my skirts comingled with his heavy robes in the flutter of wind whistling across the plains. "In four days time. I have left instructions with Elswide to continue making the broth. You may not care for the taste, but you cannot argue that it hasn't helped."  
  
A thin smile curved his lips and he regarded me from beneath heavy lids. "No, I cannot argue it. I have never felt better in all of my years. I should have listened to your mentor when she first suggested I take it."  
  
The smile widened as he saw my surprise. Wormtongue had met Udela years before she took me as initiate. He had told me of the encounter, and how it was brought up from memory by my first regard of him. "Like her, you did not look at me as one who views a corpse." I learned that his relative easiness with me had much to do with that first gaze. That and his admiration for Udela.  
  
"She wanted you to take the same draught?"  
  
Grima nodded. "Aye, though I refused. Renowned though she was, I am not given to place my trust in a leech's words. I waited to see if you would kill Eomer with your skills, before I agreed to try it."  
  
I blinked at him and then began to laugh, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle my amusement. How very typical of this man to let me experiment on someone else before allowing himself to be administered to. I had wrongly assumed that the king's physicians refused to help him. It seemed the wary advisor had little faith in their skills and chose to suffer the weakness of thin blood instead of subjecting himself to what he considered their dubious care.  
  
"You have a suspicious nature." I remarked.  
  
He took no offense, shrugging carelessly as he watched my smiling face with greater intent. "True, and rightfully so. Shall I tell you of the time Sabert practiced his formidable healing skills on Theodred? I am amazed the First Marshal made it to manhood after that epi..."  
  
His voice trailed off into nothingness and I watched his eyes focus on a point past my shoulder, narrow and darken with a yearning to make the hair on my nape stand up in warning. I turned slowly to follow the path of his gaze, knowing who I would see.  
  
Eowyn walked below us, alone save a handmaiden who followed behind in patient silence. The circlet which bound her hair during the evening meal was gone, and the wind spun the pale locks across her shoulders and down her slender back as she paced slowly through the lower courtyard in quiet contemplation.  
  
She was the antithesis of the man who watched her. Tall and graceful of form, her regality revealed itself in every line of her body. This was a daughter descended from kings, destined to be a wife to royal blood and I turned back to watch Grima Wormtongue's face, avid in its sheer longing for what was beyond his reach.  
  
"She is beautiful, is she not?" And I was shamed at the the taint of envy in my voice. Envy because, no matter my practicality, I longed to be blessed with such loveliness. That, and no matter the admiring gaze of a man like Swidhelm, I wanted the same from this man, a creature who exhibited both an unrivaled craftiness and sometimes craven demeanor.  
  
His stare never wavered from the object of his most heartfelt desires, but he answered me in a voice flat and devoid of emotion. "She is. And there is blessed little in this tired world to equal her."  
  
My belly hurt with a fierce jealousy and a pity that I dared not reveal. "I disagree."  
  
It was enough to turn his attention back to me and he cocked his head in puzzlement, waiting for me to expound upon my words.  
  
I stretched an arm to encompass our surroundings. "She is equaled by the land she dwells in, the stallion she rides across the grasslands, the brother she worships and loves. There is much around you, Grima Wormtongue, that holds a beauty all its own. You only need look a little closer."  
  
His mouth turned down, tightened into a line of contempt and I watched, curious, as he looked from me toward the direction of Isengard for a brief moment. "A naïve dreamer. You surprise me, Maeve Reod. I would not have thought such a weakness lay hidden within you."  
  
I shook my head, disheartened by his view. "I lost my naivete long ago, my lord. But I can still dream and see the finer things in what is around me. For now, I see a man of great intellect and deep emotion, possessed of a grace unique only to him."  
  
He whipped around so fast that his cloak snapped against my legs and his eyes were bright with anger. I stepped back, stunned by the rapid change in his manner. There was no doubting he was furious at my words and he strode past me, pausing only to glare at me with a menacing expression.  
  
"Beauty can hide the most rotten core, leech. My thanks for reminding me of it," he snarled, and disappeared into the shadows, leaving me flabbergasted and red-faced with astonishment.  
  
It took a few moments for my heartbeat to slow and I ran a tired hand across my eyes. "Fool," I muttered, and could not say if I spoke of myself and my wayward tongue, or Grima and his penchant for seeing insult and cruel foolery where there was none.  
  
Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by William Lilly - "Ambition has one heel nailed in well, though she stretch her fingers to touch the heavens."  
  
Additional acknowledgement - Many, many thanks to those who have left a review. I really didn't expect to get much feedback on this fiction, considering I was writing about a less popular character in LotR, as well as pairing him with an OC. Thank you for reading.  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics Site -http: 19) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo- Saxon (Old English): http:www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A695478 


	7. Discreditable Anguishes

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
Chapter Seven – Discreditable Anguishes  
  
The next morning I arose, none the worse for the amount of ale I drank the night before. I could give credit for that small mercy to a tried and true draught that Udela taught me to brew in my third year as her initiate. Simple, with few ingredients, it tasted foul but worked to stave off the effects of overindulgence. Since that time, I had brewed it on numerous occasions for those with more resistance and less sense, and to my amusement, often won moments of adoration and near-worship for the respite it offered.  
  
I entered the royal stables, my awe for their size and magnificence never waning, no matter how often I had been there to retrieve Cynwise. They were a hive of activity, with stablehands feeding horses or mucking out stalls, and grooms and riders preparing mounts for either training or riding patrol. I found a certain comfort in the stables, with their soaring wood beam structure and light streaming in through the open doors that led into the training yards. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of hay and horseflesh, and I could have happily made a place on a farrier's stool and wiled away the hours breathing in the earthiness of the place and watching the coming and goings of the horse lords.  
  
As I made my way toward Cynwise's stall, I was greeted by a few Rohirrim, some I recognized from my comings and goings through the Meduseld, one or two who I had treated briefly for a minor injury or malady. They were dressed in a variety of gear. Those who would ride patrol sported the heavier riding leathers and protective chain mail hauberks. Others, like those with whom I planned to ride that day, wore their customary trews and short tunics. Despite the differences in garb, all went armed. The lands around Edoras were well-guarded and safe for the most part, but rumors were circulating. Sightings of orcs drifting into the interior from the direction of the Westfold, and there were reported clashes with supposedly stray Dunlendings.  
  
I was in the midst of saddling Cynwise when Swidhelm made his appearance and I offered a smile of welcome at the sight of his sun-weathered features smiling at me from across my mare's back. He was dressed in a calf-length tunic and wool braccas, girded at the waist with a wide belt. There was no heavy armor but he did wear vambraces and protective leather gauntlets on his large hands.  
  
This was my first time to join a drover gathering, but I recognized the need for the gauntlets. No matter the strength of his fingers or the number of calluses on a Rohirrim's palms, he could have his hands ripped open by the drag of a rope attached to a fleeing mare or stallion. I had treated such wounds on my husband once, when the gauntlets he wore tore beneath the friction of rough hemp as he attempted to slow a colt who broke from the herd. The wound had been deep, painful and bloody, rendering his right hand near useless for several days.  
  
"You look hale this early morning, Maeve. I wondered if I would see you here."  
  
Swidhelm's voice was mild with amusement and a faint teasing tone and I responded with a short "Hmpf" as I slid the bit into Cynwise's mouth and adjusted her halter straps.  
  
"Of all the valuable things I've learned as a healer, the best has been a curative for an ale-soured stomach and thick head. It has won me many friends over the years"  
  
He laughed, and once again I took pleasure in its rich, warm sound. He was well-favored in appearance, but never so much as when he laughed. As guarded as I had become about the notions of love and affection between a man and a woman, a part of me recognized the undeniable fact that had I met this man, or one like him, instead of Ceolwulf, I would most likely be a very contented and loved wife. I shook off the musings that were fast leading me down a bitter path and concentrated on what my companion was saying.  
  
"Mayhap you will teach me this magical cure before you leave for the Westfold? I've had more than my fair share of the morning tortures after a careless night in the cups."  
  
He led Cynwise out of her stall for me and I took my place on her other side. I was short enough that I could look at him unhindered from beneath the mare's head. "Mayhap I will, though I have an easier time imagining you wielding a sword or spear, more than a mortar and pestle."  
  
Once again, his mirth rolled pleasantly across my ears and we walked out of the stables into the lightening day. His own mount, a long-legged bay stallion named Immin, waited patiently among the milling group of riders who would drive Lord Deorwine's herd from the pastures and back to the royal stables. There was much bantering and good-natured insults tossed among the group, and Swidhelm and I were greeted with hearty enthusiasm. I was not the only female to ride with the drovers, for which I was glad, and I offered my greetings to the three women who were to accompany us.  
  
Swidhelm waited until I mounted Cynwise before swinging up onto Immin and we set out through Edoras in the rhythmic thunder of hooves, passing through the lower gates of the capital and out onto the open grasslands.  
  
Of all the memories I have gathered to me, this was one of my most favored. For a day I was free of cares and the heavy weight of regrets, spending my hours among the Rohirrim as they rode among the herd, magnificent in their horsemanship. I learned how the riders would isolate the mearas stallion or the lead mare to gain control of the herd and guide them in the right direction. The wind tore at my braids and I could feel the flex and stretch of Cynwise's muscles beneath my clamped thighs as she kept pace with the other mounts who raced back and forth along the line of galloping horses.  
  
I joined in the whistling calls and teasing that passed between the horselords and laughed with them when I lost my seat from Cynwise and fell solidly on my backside. A grinning Swidhelm cantered toward me, leaning down with a practiced grace to lift me onto the back of Immin, and we captured my mare so I could remount. By the time we returned to Edoras and the royal stables, I was covered in dust, reeking of horse and burnt by the sun. I had not felt happier in all my time living in the Mark.  
  
Swidhelm followed me as I lead Cynwise to her stall and helped unsaddle and groom her. The excitement of the day was fast wearing off, and I grew more tired with each pass of the brush over the mare's withers. I noted my companion's smile as I hid a yawn behind my hand.  
  
"You ride well enough for one who isn't an Eorling, Maeve of Gondor."  
  
I gave him my best scowl, which was effectively ruined by another yawn. "You have an unfair advantage over me, horselord. I wasn't put on the back of a stallion while still in swaddling clothes." I ran a hand across my bruised hip and flinched. "Likely I'll be fair sore tomorrow from that fall I took. My bones are growing older. I feel the aches more these days."  
  
I was thankful that the sun-redness of my face hid the blush that slowly heated my cheeks as Swidhelm's gaze turned from amused to measuring, and once again I saw the flicker of admiration in his blue eyes. "Not so old, I think, Maeve. And still fair as any maid."  
  
I felt the urge to duck my head and hide behind Cynwise, but squelched the urge and thanked Swidhelm for his flattery in an even tone. "This has been a good day. A fine day. I cannot thank you enough for bringing me with you. I would like to repay your kindness in some fashion."  
  
He gestured for me to hand him the curry brush, and when I did, he ran it in long slow strokes down the mare's side and over her flanks. I laughed as she snorted in the pleasure of his grooming. His smile had returned and there was no lingering tension between us. It seemed he had a gift for calming a female, no matter the breed or persuasion.  
  
"Repay me by taking your dinner with me in the Hall tonight."  
  
I gave a regretful shake of my head. "I cannot. It isn't seemly for me to be there without the invitation of the king or his family. And I am far more comfortable eating in the kitchens." I shrugged, hoping he would not take my refusal as a rejection of him. "There is little ritual practiced when one sits eating their soup next to a scullery maid plucking a chicken."  
  
Swidhelm chuckled and leaned against the mare's back, bringing his face closer to mine. I could see the laugh lines that bordered his eyes and there were red highlights in the fairness of his beard. "Then I will eat in the kitchens with you, no matter that Elswide terrifies me more than any Uruk ever did."  
  
My eyes widened at his jest and I laughed, certain that he was half serious about being intimidated by the Meduseld's formidable cook. I did not refuse him again, knowing that this was no soft Gondorian nobleman, but a hardened fighter who had spent many an evening eating a spare dinner of bread and cheese while sitting on hard ground and enduring inclement weather. Eating in the kitchen of the Meduseld would not be a hardship for him and I looked forward to his company.  
  
I asked him to give me time to rid myself of the dust from the day and change my clothes and we agreed to meet in the kitchens at the appointed time. We finished bedding Cynwise down for the evening and I left him in the stables to take care of Immin while I returned to my temporary chamber to bathe and change.  
  
It was no surprise that I arrived in the kitchens before he did, and was immediately greeted by a scowling Elswide who did not at all look pleased to see me. "He refused the broth. Said it must come from you or he wouldn't drink it. I even sent Beornwyn to tempt him. By the look of her, he had obviously hitched her skirts, but she brought the cup back, untouched."  
  
I blinked at the cook in confusion for a moment, uncertain who she was referring to, but as her words sank in, I began to mimic her scowl. "He is being stubborn. You saw me brew the draught myself this morning. Did you tell him that?"  
  
She stomped around one of the tables, the flash of her favorite boning knife sliding across a whetting stone in ever-increasing speed as her agitation grew. "Of course I told him. It matters not and I refuse to argue with the likes of Grima Wormtongue. If you want him to drink the broth, you have to take it to him yourself."  
  
I rolled my eyes, muttering loudly about the vagaries and oddities of royal advisors, but set to work reheating the draught she had saved in a small cauldron. When it was hot, I poured it into waiting cup and relayed my plans to her. "A man will arrive while I am gone. You know of him, I think. Swidhelm, son of Hunwald. Will it be a hardship to prepare something for both of us? If so, I can set out something from the larder for us."  
  
Elswide's frown melted like snow at spring's first heat. I suppressed a smile as her eyes lit with interest and pleasure and she dusted her hands together, giving me a small push toward the door. "You deal with the snake, lass. I'll take care of your guest. A good man, that Swidhelm. Took his fine looks from his mother."  
  
I did smile at that and thanked her as she pushed me out into the corridor, the steaming bowl of blood broth warming my hands. I had to walk slowly so as not to spill its contents but was soon in front of Wormtongue's door, knocking. There was no answer and I knocked again, calling out my identity. "My lord, it is Maeve with your draught."  
  
It was as I suspected, for the words were no sooner out of my mouth than the door opened and I stepped into the advisor's chambers. I heard the click of the latch behind me as I brought the bowl to the table and set it down gently. When I turned, I found Grima watching me with slitted eyes.  
  
"It took you long enough to bring it."  
  
I kept my features serene, though my irritation mounted at his words. Mercurial creature. I had not forgotten his hissing anger from the previous night. Obviously, it carried through this evening, finding vent in petty refusals and petulant complaints.  
  
"I left instructions to have it delivered to you in my absence, my lord. Elswide said you refused it."  
  
He strode toward me, the long robes and heavy furred lota scraping across the floor as he approached. Fading light cast bars of shadow across the walls of the chamber and Wormtongue looked wan and pinch-featured in the growing dark. Still, I found him fascinating, no matter my annoyance with his current behaviour, and noted with interest that he moved with a stealthy, confident grace. A far cry from the half-crouched, subservient gait I'd seen him employ while in the presence of the king the previous night.  
  
I neither flinched nor moved away as he circled me and leaned closer to jeer softly into my ear. "A poor healer you are, to leave your patient lingering as you frolic among the grasslands with an Eorling warrior."  
  
He stepped back as I spun around, truly angered at his implication. I was not a careless or thoughtless leech. However, I was also not a slave to my work. And I was thoroughly insulted by his remark. The urge to strike out was strong, but I held back, stifled by two unavoidable facts.  
  
First, the hierarchy of the household determined our statuses. Though highly skilled in my vocation, I was no better than any servant and wielded no power here. Wormtongue, on the other hand, had the ear of a king, and exerted a great deal of influence and sway over the events taking place in the Meduseld. I knew my place, though for the first time, I resented it. Second, I had no wish to verbally spar with this man. While most of our encounters had only highlighted the bardic skill of his tongue, I had no doubt that he could wield words with the savagery of a whip and I had no wish to be lashed bloody.  
  
So I swallowed my angry words and inclined my head, forcing out an apology I did not feel through clenched teeth. "I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I will be certain to deliver the draught to you myself in the days I have remaining here."  
  
There was an extended silence between us as I kept my eyes cast to the floor in rebellion. I could feel his stare intensify, as if he willed me to look up. I remained steadfast in my refusal. The whisper of a regretful sigh drifted to my ears but I maintained my expression, only bowing stiffly before turning to exit the chamber.  
  
His voice, no longer sharp with sarcasm or bitterness, halted my steps. "Will you embrace the wind tonight, Maeve Reod?"  
  
I was slow to answer, once again confused by the abrupt change of his mood. I was certain I heard the tones of apology in his voice, though he made no statement that remotely offered one. Still, the question regarding whether or not I would appear later that night in my usual spot was telling in itself. My anger was still too fresh to fade, though I did not lie when I answered him. I was far too tired from the day's events to do more than eat my meal with Swidhelm and fall onto my pallet for a much needed rest. I faced Grima again and gave him my answer. "No, my lord. I seek my bed early, tonight."  
  
For a brief moment, I saw the shade of vulnerability cross his pale face before disappearing behind a stoic, vulpine mask. He nodded once and again I made my way to the door. And again, he stopped my leaving with another question. And this one made my stomach flutter.  
  
"Did you mean what you said last night, healer?"  
  
I knew exactly of what Grima spoke. My comment concerning his own unique beauty, the one he took as mockery instead of compliment and stormed away, offended by the imagined slight. This time, my anger did fade, replaced by that mesmerizing lure that continued to pull me toward him like a strange witch-lit lodestone. My voice was soft in the chamber but carried no hesitation. "I am not the one with the guileful tongue, my lord. I always mean what I say."  
  
We stared at each other for what seemed like years, but was truly only a space of breaths before he inclined his head in polite dismissal. "A good evening, then, healer. Perhaps you might be well-rested by tomorrow evening."  
  
I bowed again. "Perhaps, my lord. I will return tomorrow."  
  
The door closed softly behind me and I leaned against it, closing my eyes and rubbing my now aching head with my fingers. I loved the feel of the sun. I had spent the day in its light, kept company by those who carried its colors in their hair and eyes. A shard of it awaited me in the bread- scented warmth of the kitchens, eager to share a meal and friendly conversation. Yet, why was it that I found myself lingering here, crushing the urge to return to a darkening chamber and the changeable shadow that sat alone at a small table, drinking blood broth from a bowl?  
  
Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Aldous Huxley - "There are confessable agonies, sufferings of which one can positively be proud. Of bereavement, of parting, of the sense of sin and the fear of death the poets have eloquently spoken. They command the world's sympathy. But there are also discreditable anguishes, no less excruciating than the others, but of which the sufferer dare not, cannot speak. The anguish of thwarted desire, for example."  
  
A/N – Terms in translation – Reod – Old English for "red". Braccas – Old English for breeches or long trousers. Lota – Old English for a coverlet or cloak made of a shaggy fabric such as fur. Sources for translations are cited below in the list of resources.  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – www.lordotrings.com, 6)The Reading Room – www.tolkienonline.com, 7) The Haradrim 8) The Swan – Eowyn of Middle Earth – 10) Suite 101 – www.suite101.com, 11) Questia – www.questia.com, 12) The Grima Dictionary – www.grimawormtongue.com, 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – www.freerepublic.com, 14) The Lexicon of Rohan 15) TolkienWiki Community – www.thetolkienwiki.org, 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – www32.brinkster.com, 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A695478, 18) Map of Middle Earth 19) Tolkien Maps – www.lotrmpas.com 20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – www.horseshoes.com 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – www.dicksonc.act.edu.au 23) The Legacy of the Horse – www.imh.org 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – www.classicalfencing.com 25) History of Rohan – www.4reference.net 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – www.leadmare.com 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – home.insight.rr.com 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr 


	8. The World Cracked Open

The Allure of the Dark Angel  
  
Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.  
  
A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.  
  
This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.  
  
Chapter Eight – The World Cracked Open  
  
Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, had beautiful hands. Long fingers and narrow palms. They did not gesture wildly or with clumsy motion, but arced through the air in an elegant dance when she spoke, lending a certain grace and brevity to her statements.  
  
I watched her as she spoke with Theodred, her cool, fair features tight with tension as she argued her cousin's unwillingness to take her on patrol with him. Trained for combat and named Shield Maiden, she was nonetheless bound by the customs of her homeland which did not favor women riding as warriors.  
  
I had heard in the kitchens that this frustrated the king's niece to no end, and had been a source of heated argument between her and her cousin and brother. I sympathized with her anger in that I understood the stifling helplessness impressed upon one when subject to another's control. For myself, I never entertained the idea of riding nobly into battle on the back of my sturdy mare. My skills and interests lay elsewhere, and I suspected I would be far more formidable with a broom than a sword.  
  
I waited a respectful distance from the two as they argued, having no wish to be accused of listening in on those things that did not concern me nor were rightfully mine to know. I was in the Golden Hall to thank Eowyn for her kindness and hospitality during my stay in Edoras, and wish her good tidings before I left for the Westfold the next morning.  
  
While I could not understand all of their words, the sharpening tones of their voices indicated a rise in the hostility between them, until frustrated and flushed, Theodred gave a last shake of his head and strode away, his wide shoulders stiff with anger. Eowyn watched him leave, the nimble hands curling into fists. She stared at her cousin's retreating back for long moments before turning and seeing me waiting by the central hearthfire.  
  
She schooled her features into a polite mask, and I saw it took effort to tamp down on her anger enough to hold a civil conversation. Her smile was strained as she greeted me. "Maeve of Gondor. Blessings upon you."  
  
I bowed and returned the salutation and made quick to state my reasons for seeking her out. "I leave Edoras tomorrow, my lady. I wanted to see you and extend my thanks for your hospitality and welcome while I was here."  
  
Her smile relaxed, becoming more natural and reflecting in her eyes. She was a beautiful woman, a fascinating combination of ice and sunlight, intelligence and vulnerability. I recalled the yearning expression on Wormtongue's face when he caught sight of her as she took an evening stroll through the Meduseld's lower courtyard, and had no doubt that she had inspired such a longing in other men as well.  
  
Her fingers were warm as she reached for mine and gave them a brief, gentle squeeze. "It is for me to thank you, Maeve. You healed my brother, gave back to him his vigor. We owe you much."  
  
I smiled in return as she released my hand. They owed me nothing. I had been well compensated for my services. An additional horse, loaded with supplies, would accompany me and my escort on my journey home. Dried herbs, some rare and costly, were stuffed into pouches, along with imported oils from Umbar. I had been given bolts of sturdy cloth and two finely cured hides. All practical items that, nonetheless, increased the wealth of my small household, and added greatly to my healing abilities. My time here had been prosperous.  
  
We spoke a few minutes longer, Eowyn asking who would travel with me, when did I expect to reach my village, and would I miss any here in Edoras when I left. I told her of Elswide and her sister Wulfrune, and she laughed, as familiar as anyone with the kitchen mistress's bold, no-nonsense personality. I said nothing of the fragile friendship that existed between me and Wormtongue, feeling that such information would not be greeted with the same humor.  
  
By the time I returned to my chamber to pack my remaining belongings, the servants were setting up the long tables in preparation for the evening meals, and I knew the kitchens were alive and chaotic with the effort to have the food ready. I would wait to venture in for my own dinner once those in the Golden Hall had been served and the frantic pace slowed. Any earlier, and I'd only be underfoot, likely to be run down by rushing scullery maids or forcibly tossed out by an impatient Elswide who would not hesitate to tell me to get out of the way.  
  
I folded my spare shift and tucked it into my satchel, halting abruptly at the feel of something hard and unfamiliar resting at the bottom of the bag. My brows rose as I ran my fingers over a stiffened square of leather and I could feel my curiosity transform into excitement as I slowly pulled out a small book, hand-tooled and bound with the finest thread. I held it in trembling, reverent hands, caressing the cover as one would the skin of a lover. The spine of the book cracked loudly in protest, a sign that I was one of the first to open it. Within was page upon page of blank, crisp parchment. A grimoire, new and unspoiled by ink scratches or the press of oily fingertips. A precious gift, worth more than any coin I could earn to pay for it in my lifetime. Books were the luxuries of the rich and educated. Some less affluent households might have a few that were guarded as closely as any jewels, and shown off with as much pride. The beaten and tattered grimoire I already owned once belonged to Udela, and over the years, I had taken up the practice of writing as small as possible in order to conserve the remaining space within it. I could not have been more stunned at the generosity of the giver had they appeared at my door with an entire herd of mearas stallions.  
  
And I knew the source of such quiet munificence. In the time that I had given aid to Grima Wormtongue in both the healing of his thigh wound and the making of the blood draught, he had not once uttered a word of thanks, nor had I expected it. I had learned, through our evening exchanges, that while skilled in oratory and observation, he wasn't one to be effusive with either praise or gratitude unless speaking with the king. The gift of the grimoire was his way of acknowledging my help and offering his thanks. I was nearly breathless with his unforeseen kindness.  
  
So caught up in the admiration of my new possession, I almost forgot to visit the kitchens for my meal. As I knew would be the case, the bustle had slowed and tired servants and under-cooks sat at the rough hewn tables, eating their own meals. I waved a protesting hand at Elswide who had risen from her place to serve me and prepared myself a trencher of roast boar, cheese and brown bread soaked in ale. The cook made a place next to her and I sat down, smiling in apology as my stomach protested its hunger with a loud rumble.  
  
Elswide glowered at me over a tankard of ale. "Don't forget, girl, to break your fast here before you go. And I'll have something extra packed for your journey." Her scowl intensified and I smiled at her with great affection. Bristling and commanding, she was, but a truly caring woman, and I would miss the conversations we had in her domain. I resisted the urge to embrace her, knowing she would sputter and shove me off in embarrassment, so I raised my own tankard in a softly worded toast. "To the finest cook in all the Riddermark. Have no fear, Elswide, you'll see me at first light." She blushed at my praise and tapped her cup against mine, and we spent the remaining time in lighthearted banter.  
  
As I made to leave the kitchens, she passed the usual bowl of broth for Grima, along with a stern command. "Be sure to let him know you won't be the one to either brew or bring him the draught. He'll have to yield enough to take it from one of us, or just not drink it. I've no time to coddle a sickly lizard like Wormtongue."  
  
I nodded once, both eager and sad to make this last visit. I wanted to thank the king's advisor for his gift, let him know it was the finest thing I ever received beyond the knowledge imparted to me by Udela. And I would be sad to say farewell. In the short time I had lived within the walls of the Meduseld, I had struck up friendships with decent folk. I would miss them when I took my leave. It was Grima, however, who had left an indelible mark on me, something that would linger within my mind and spirit so that I knew he would haunt both my thoughts and possibly my dreams long after I had departed from Edoras. Despite his appearance, which most considered repellant, and his furtive, predatory manner, I remained spellbound by him. Even more so now that we had dealt with one another in the solitude of his chamber or while overlooking the plains surrounding the town in the cool of late evening.  
  
That he likewise felt any allure, I doubted, though I sensed his pleasure in our conversations. His own bewitchment was entangled in a woman born to beauty, power and an uncommon grace. I envied her. I pitied him. To crave something so deeply, knowing that it was far beyond one's reach was a torture in and of itself, and I had seen the despair that accompanied that yearning each time the son of Galmod rested his gaze on the fair-faced daughter of Eomund.  
  
As always, I knocked and stated my presence outside Wormtongue's door. And as always, it opened on silent hinges. The chamber was well lit this time, torches casting fragmented pools of light across the floor and walls. I paused to look around before continuing to the table and setting the bowl of steaming broth down on its surface. While brighter and not so cloaked in shadow, the room retained its melancholy feel, as if the austerity within it stemmed from the man who claimed it as his.  
  
I met Grima's heavy-lidded eyes as he passed me to take his seat at the table and casually stir the broth with his spoon. "Have you finished your preparations for your leave-taking, healer?" His voice carried low in the chamber's stillness, its tones dispassionate and decidedly lacking in interest. I wasn't fooled. Wormtongue never asked a question without a purpose. Whether it was to glean information or pursue a personal curiosity, his inquiries were not wasted on inane conversation. He wanted to know if I had found the grimoire.  
  
I kept a stoic expression, though I smiled inside. "Yes, my lord. I could leave tonight, if necessary." I paused for a moment before continuing. "I found the book you gave to me."  
  
The swirling motion of the spoon in the bowl never faltered or ceased and Grima shrugged, as if the costly gift was only an afterthought for him, something of little importance. Whether he honestly felt such, it wasn't so with me and I took the opportunity of his continued silence to thank him.  
  
"It was a most generous gift, my lord. You have my gratitude. The grimoire will be my most prized possession."  
  
There was a brief flash of doubt in his expression before it disappeared behind the indifferent mask. "It was only a book. A simple thing. It means little"  
  
I moved closer to him and watched as the sinuous motion of the spoon halted abruptly. "It means much to me." I argued. "The grimoire I possess now was once Udela's. You've seen it. It is tattered, all of the pages nearly filled. Yet it is a treasure of mine. Now I have this one, to fill with the knowledge I learned from my mentor and gathered in my travels. I will pass it on to my own initiate who will treat it with the same reverence. Not so meaningless, son of Galmod. A gracious gift, far beyond its worth in coin."  
  
The air between us grew heavy and Grima's pale hands slid from the table to fall in his lap. I do not know what possessed me to act as I did. Whether it was the vulnerable hesitation on his part to accept my gratitude, or the knowledge that I would not see him again after tonight, or even the strength of his allure, like the fine, unbreakable strands of a spider's web, but I threw my caution to the wind.  
  
Had I dared to touch him with my hands, I knew I would feel the brittle tension of quivering muscle. But I only leaned closer, pressed my cheek against his and brushed a faint kiss against the corner of his compressed mouth. His skin was cool and lightly veined, like the white marble that gave Minas Tirith its name, and so much more fragile. In those short- lived moments, when I felt the stutter of his breath drift across my throat, I became well and truly bound, wishing with all my being that, for a time, I could be Eowyn of Rohan.  
  
I stepped away before he could push me back and his eyes, when he looked at me, were more shadowed than the writhing darkness that grew in the east. His voice was deep with wariness, surprise and something more that made a warmth pool in my belly. "A fair journey for you, Maeve of Gondor. You will not be forgotten."  
  
Melancholy merged with desire and I knew in my very bones that if Wormtongue asked me to stay that final evening and share his bed, I would do so with no hesitation. As it was, I smiled and bowed and offered my own words. "A good life for you, Grima, king's counselor. I will dream and remember."  
  
I left him then and made my way to my chamber. Loneliness was a companion with whom I was well-acquainted, though I did not often seek it. Yet it lurked at my side as I pulled the new grimoire from my satchel and stretched across my bed, running my fingers over the tooled leather with gentle touches. The moments before sleep claimed me, I found myself greatly wishing I caressed its giver, and not the gift itself.  
  
Please review.  
  
Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Agnes De Mille - "...then I did the simplest thing in the world. I leaned down... and kissed him. And the world cracked open."  
  
A/N – Again, thank you to all who have reviewed and offered feedback. Chapter Nine may be a little slower to update as I have a lot of research to do on battlefield tactics before I begin to write it.  
  
Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:  
  
1) Anglo Saxon Names - www.s-gabriel.org 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.20000-names.com  
  
Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - www.glyphweb.com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - www.happyherbalist.com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal.demon.co.uk 4) The Thain's Book – www.tuckborough.net 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – www.lordotrings.com, 6)The Reading Room – www.tolkienonline.com, 7) The Haradrim 8) The Swan – Eowyn of Middle Earth – 10) Suite 101 – www.suite101.com, 11) Questia – www.questia.com, 12) The Grima Dictionary – www.grimawormtongue.com, 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – www.freerepublic.com, 14) The Lexicon of Rohan 15) TolkienWiki Community – www.thetolkienwiki.org, 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – www32.brinkster.com, 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A695478, 18) Map of Middle Earth 19) Tolkien Maps – www.lotrmpas.com 20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – www.horseshoes.com 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – www.dicksonc.act.edu.au 23) The Legacy of the Horse – www.imh.org 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – www.classicalfencing.com 25) History of Rohan – www.4reference.net 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – www.leadmare.com 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – home.insight.rr.com 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr 


	9. To Betray

The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter Nine – To Betray

Fate has a way of revisiting one's actions in one form or another. I have seen it happen to others. And it has happened to me. The decisions I have made in my life have invariably come back to haunt me, sometimes to my detriment, sometimes to my favor. Even after these many years, I can still recall one that makes me brood and question the vagaries of existence, and the wisdom of my choices.

The journey from Edoras back to my village was uneventful, marked only by silent musings of my visit to the capital and my interactions with the enigmatic Grima Wormtongue. In the short time among the inhabitants of the Meduseld, I had made friends and would miss their company. Elswide, Wulfrune, Swidhelm, even Eowyn to an extent. But none would visit my dreams as did the pale, sly counselor to Theoden King. Often were the times that I would take the new grimoire from its satchel and caress the tooled leather, admiring the workmanship and the generosity of its giver. In the months that followed my return to home, Grima was never far from my thoughts, his image only growing stronger in my mind with the passage of time.

I had come back to the village to find Sunniva and her new husband comfortably ensconced in my house. She had not failed me in my trust. My gardens thrived, my horses were healthy and well-groomed, my home in immaculate order. In the short days it took for the villagers to erect a new home for the couple, they continued to stay with me, and I was somewhat saddened to see them leave. Though my own abode was too small for the three of us, and a husband and wife deserve their privacy, I had found Sunniva and Alger to be good company, a respite from the silent loneliness that descended upon me once they left.

The summer season passed swiftly into fall and then into the windy, harsh months of winter. During that time, I was kept busy. I welcomed the hard work of healing that awaited me. I delivered two children into the world and helped bury one of the mothers. There were wounds of war and accident to heal, and with the coming of the colder months, the sick to tend to.

My village sat on the edges of the Mark, near the river Isen and dangerously close to Dunland territory. It was not uncommon for raids to occur. The Dunland folk still believe the land that is now the Riddermark was stolen from them. The Rohirrim see it as theirs by right of conquest and alliance. I hold no opinion, though will side with my adopted homeland. As an outlander, I did not bear the attachments to the Mark that both of these peoples had and in some ways could remain objective, understanding why one side chose to attack in a fruitless attempt to regain what had once been lost long ago, and why the other chose to defend what they believed to be inherently theirs through generations. I had tended to many a warrior wounded in a dunlending attack and my limited knowledge of them was confined to the opinions of the embittered Rohirrim, Savages, heathens, invaders. Despite such beliefs, I bore them no ill will or prejudice though I was as cautious as my adopted kinsman when it came to any dealings with those of dunlending blood.

Whether or not that bit of personal opinion became known, I cannot say, but one late winter night I had the most interesting visitor at my door. I was in the midst of drying the last of my hardiest herbs and sorting the seedlings to be planted in my sleeping garden in a few weeks time. After that, I would find my bed. It was while I sat hunched over my table, counting out seeds that I heard a faint scratching at my door. I ignored it at first, thinking it only a bit of dry twig or scatter of leaves tossed by the wind. When it came again, I paid attention. The sound was both rhythmic and persistent and my stomach knotted in fear.

I was used to visits at all times of the day or night. Children are born at the rise of the sun or the wax of the moon. The ill and the injured need tending at all hours and the dead find peace according to the wishes of the spirit. However, greetings are always called out, be they joyful or fearful, never this secretive, quiet salutation that spoke of one not wanting to be heard by any save those within the house.

I rose quietly from the table and pulled the small crossbow from the corner near my bed, nocking an arrow in place. I am no archer, but at close range I can hit what I aim at. My husband had taught me how to use such a weapon, and though my palms were slippery with nervous sweat, I leveled the bow at the door and, in a calm voice, bade my visitor to enter. I could only pray that I wouldn't find it necessary to send a bolt into someone's midriff.

My visitor's surprise was greater than my own at finding me armed and waiting. It made a small choking sound, dropping to its knees in supplication and fear. "Please," it croaked in the Common tongue and I could discern a woman's voice within the concealing shadows.

Her speech was heavily accented, hinting that this was no eorling. I did not lower the bow. A person can be as brought low as easily by a woman as by a man. Ask any Shield Maiden worth her sword arm. "Show yourself and state your business!" I commanded in a harsh whisper.

She shuffled forward on her knees and the door swung closed behind her. The muted light of the tapers revealed a thin creature dressed in rags. Her dark hair was matted with dirt, face gaunt with the signs of hunger. The stench that rose from her clothing was fetid enough to make my eyes water but I held my ground, watching her as she watched me, wary but curious.

A dunlending woman. I could not let my surprise override my caution but the strangeness of this encounter caught me unawares. Why a woman of an enemy people chose to risk her life and sneak into a Rohirrim village in order to seek me out remained beyond my understanding. I did not speak again, choosing to wait for her to reveal her reasons to me.

She eyed the crossbow in my hands for a moment and made no effort to stand. Her hands clenched nervously in her tattered cloak. "I seek your help. My man is dying and we have no healer. I have done all I can. It is said that you are not eorling." She held out a beseeching hand and I was moved to pity at the sight of her twisted fingers with their scraped knuckles and torn nails and the desperation in her eyes. "Please." She murmured in a near hopeless voice.

I was hesitant to answer, caught between feelings of fear and sympathy. It was because I was not Rohirrim that she appeared on my doorstep. She had risked much to come here, carried by a small flame of hope within her that since I did not carry the blood of an ancient enemy, I might find a mercy within me to give aid. Rohan and Dunland bore a hatred for each other that spanned generations. Her gender wouldn't protect her if she was caught slinking through our village. And she was right. I did want to help. It was my nature to do so, what defined who I was, and yet I paused. My courage was not so great as hers, nor did I have the motivation to save a loved one no matter the cost. And I did not fancy myself at the mercy of a dunlending warrior.

I lowered the bow and bade her rise. "Sit. I will make you tea and you will tell me of your man's ailment. Then I will give you my answer."

Her eyes darted nervously from wall to wall, taking in the racks of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, the rows of seeds laid neatly out on the table. I scraped those into neat piles and set them aside where they wouldn't be disturbed or mixed together. The Dunland woman shuffled forward and sat gingerly on the edge of the bench, clenching her hands in her lap. I disarmed the bow and dropped it back into its customary spot. "How are you called?" I asked.

I continued to busy myself as I spoke, watching her from the corner of my eye as I set water to boil and pulled a loaf of bread from my larder to slice.

"Groa", she croaked in that roughened voice and I could see her eyes follow the motion of my hands with avid longing as I sliced the bread and placed it on a wooden trencher. I placed it on the table in front of her and turned back to the hearth to tend to the tea. When I faced her again, it was to find Groa's fingers stretching longingly toward the bread. She snatched her hand back, cradling it to her chest when she discovered me watching her.

"Go on," I said gently. "It is for you."

Hunger is a hard taskmaster and not one to stand on the ceremony or ritual at table. Groa attacked the bread as a warg would a hapless stag. She had consumed an entire slice and was halfway through her second before I could warn her to slow down and spare her stomach later misery. While she heeded my words to a degree, there was an almost animalistic gleam in her eyes, a warning that I might well be in danger of losing my hand should I try to remove the trencher from the table before she finished.

She was more circumspect with the tea, drinking slowly and offering me a tentative smile of thanks, revealing broken, blackened teeth. Beneath the dirt, it was difficult to guess her age, but I thought her not much beyond her twenty-fifth year. And if her conditions did not improve, she would not live far beyond that. I sat across from her at the table, saying nothing as she satisfied her hunger and thirst, and I think my stillness and patience lent much to putting her at ease. It wasn't long before she explained her visit.

"My man, Fenbar, was teaching our lad how to swing a sword, to fight eorlings proper." Her eyes flashed up to mine in panic at her slip in words. I kept my expression neutral. To pass judgement on such knowledge was, in my mind, childish. Every Rohirrim in this village with a son at fighting age spent time teaching him to handle a sword or spear, often for the cause of skewering a dunlending on the end of it.

Groa breathed a small sigh of relief at my lack of reaction but I could see she watched her words more carefully. "The sword slipped in his grip and he cut himself. We thought little of it at first and I treated it as best I know how." Her fingers massaged the ragged edges of her cloak . "To no good. He's sickened, the wound turned putrid." Her eyes were wild again, much as they had been when she first arrived. "There is no one to help, no one with a leech's skill. We have heard of you. 'Tis said you are of not of Rohan. That you might help. So I came."

I have never forgotten her eyes, dark and imploring. They are the reason I give myself, when wracked with guilt, for making the decision I did. I laced my fingers together and rested my chin against them, sighing into my cupped hands. "You ask much of me, Groa of Dunland." I murmured.

We sat together in silence for long moments before I rose and began gathering supplies. The dunlending community from where she hailed was close, easily reached by horse in a short time. Such proximity to the enemy made for frequent skirmishes, but now I was grateful for its nearness. If I wasn't taken captive or killed by Groa's people, I could return home before the sun's rising with no one the wiser.

While my memory has faded over time, I can still clearly see the face of the wounded Fenbar. As bedraggled and stinking as his mate, he stared at me unseeing, lost in the hallucinations of fever, as I tended a sword gash far gone with infection. I worked as swiftly as possible, eager to be finished and gone before some sharp-eyed wild man of the North awakened and discovered a stranger in their midst.

Nor would it go well for me to be found out by the Rohirrim with whom I lived. Whether or not I betrayed Rohan by helping an enemy heal from an injury remains a question I ponder to this day, but I had no doubts how an eorling would view such actions.

So it was with great relief that I left Groa's hovel, refusing her meager gifts of soured ale and a tattered blanket, and returned home before dawn. I collapsed onto my bed, weary from the journey and the long night, and very troubled by my decision. Over the next two weeks, the niggling disquiet persisted, growing into a guilt that kept me sleepless at night, finally blossoming into a shamed remorse at the event to follow.

I shall never forget the day of January twenty-seventh. We were attacked in the early morning, taken by surprise as dunlendings and orcs alike swarmed our village, slaughtering and burning as they laid waste to all before them. The Rohirrim are battle-worthy, even caught completely off guard, and they fought valiantly, many dying in the midst of blood-crazed orcs and screaming women and children. Those not mired in the heavy fighting sought to gather the horses and save their families, tossing infants and girls onto mounts with shouted instructions to ride hard for Edoras.

In all the chaos, I managed to capture Cynwise as she stamped her hooves, wild-eyed with fear at the smell of blood and orc. An arrow whistled past my ear, burying its tip into the wooden fence next to me. I screamed, dropping nearly to my knees and scurrying around my mare. She snorted, tossing her head in panic as I struggled to mount her. A hard push on my backside sent me flying upward and I almost slid off the other side of the horse before grabbing her mane and pulling myself into a sitting position.

I caught only a brief glimpse of Sunniva's grim, tear-streaked face as she swung up behind me and smashed her heels into Cynwise's sides. The mare leaped forward, neighing in terror as a dunlending fighter fell against her withers as we rode by. In that moment, time slowed and I saw Groa's man lurch backward, falling into the dirt, clutching a sword stained with the blood of the Rohirrim.

Sunniva's enraged scream deafened me and I watched in horror as she slipped off Cynwise, ignoring my desperate cries to remount. As quick as the most fleet-footed fighter, she lifted a broken spear from the ground and turned on the downed dunlending. His eyes never lost their hatred as she drove the spearhead into his belly with all of her might, pinning him to the ground.

My initiate's young face was that of a hardened, bitter crone's when she once again swung up behind me and I wasted no time urging Cynwise into a full run through the destroyed village, praying neither of us would meet the fate of those we left behind to fight.

We caught up with others who managed to escape and we rode hard eastward, women clutching babes, brothers holding sisters in a desperate to reach Edoras with a warning of possible invasion. We didn't stop until the moon had risen high above us and the younger among us were in danger of falling from their mounts from sheer exhaustion. Our luck held as we came upon a gentle hill in the middle of the wide, flat plain. There was tired shuffling as our group huddled together against the leeside of the slope. Few spoke, caught up in a heavy silence born of shock and residual terror.

I instructed Sunniva to help me with the others, find out if anyone had sustained an injury, not that we could do much. No one carried anything with them, save the clothes on their backs. We had no food, no water and no blankets. The best we could hope for was to share whatever body warmth we had between us by crowding together and keeping our horses close.

Once again, we were spared more grief. Only one of our little party, the blacksmith's boy, Garath, suffered a broken finger. When I was certain all were well enough, I made to settle in among the women, but stopped and watched as Sunniva walked a short distance away, shoulders stiff with misery.

There are times when we all wish to embrace our sorrow in solitude; when the comfort of a well-meaning friend is no comfort at all. But in this, I felt compelled to follow her, the memory of her killing Groa's husband strong in my mind. Her stance bespoke an abiding sorrow though she remained dry-eyed, and I wondered if she was burdened by his death or simply the fear for her husband's safety.

"Alger may well meet with us in Edoras, Sunniva. You cannot give up hope."

I flinched as she turned her head and stared at me with empty eyes. "Alger is dead, Maeve." And there was no mistaking the certainty in the cool tones of her voice. I grieved inwardly for her. Married only months earlier, widowed soon after. But it was not this news that left me stricken to silence. Her next words, much like Groa's dark, pleading eyes, still haunt my dreams.

"The dunlending I killed took Alger's life. I saw it. I have brought down his vengeance with the savage's death."

She left me then, returning to sit with the others, and it was I who stood alone and stared up at the star-laced sky, hollow with shame and regret, knowing with a heavy despair that my healer's hands were as stained with Alger's blood as those of the dead Fenbar of Dunland.

I kept largely to myself for the rest of the night, shivering in the winter air along with those who traveled with me. At dawn we rose, creaking and tired, to once again ride for Edoras. And we remained a quiet group, our silences broken only by a child crying with hunger. Another long day of misery and night of chills passed before we reached the barred gate of Edoras.

For a brief moment I felt uplifted by the glad cries of relief some of the women made at first sight of the capital. Warriors bearing Erkenbrand's crest rode out to meet us and there was much excitement and weeping as we strove to tell of the attack and beg for shelter and food. The Rohirrim soldiers led us into the main courtyard and one broke off from the group to give news to those within the Meduseld.

We were surrounded by townfolk, comforted and offered water, bread and places to sleep. I spotted Wulfrune in the crowd and she embraced me with her muscular arms as I leaned my head on her shoulder. I introduced her to Sunniva and it was soon arranged that the two of us would stay with her and her family while in Edoras. I promised both I would join them as soon as I could find berth for Cynwise and watched, heavy-hearted as the aging healer led my initiate away.

I had just finished leading the mare into a stall within the great stables when a familiar, sibilant voice made me turn. Dressed in the trappings of shadow and pale, bloodless skin, Grima Wormtongue watched me with those hooded, secretive eyes.

"Maeve of Gondor," he murmured. "Where is the grimoire I gave to you?"

My throat hurt, swollen with tears I had not shed since we fled the Westfold. My medicines and herbs, my books, all the knowledge passed to me by Udela, my friends and adopted family destroyed in the fires of strife and hate, and Sunniva widowed by my betrayal. "Lost, Lord Grima," I croaked in a voice nearly incoherent with grief. "All is lost." And I allowed the tears to fall, and found comfort in the feel of cool, white hands sliding into my tangled hair, the heavy touch of the furred lota enveloping my shoulders.

"It has always been so, Maeve Reod."

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Harold Philby - "To betray, you must first belong."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps –

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	10. A fallen god

The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter Ten – A fallen god

There are times, usually during the summer months when the herds stretch across the grasslands grazing under the shimmering sun, that great dark clouds suddenly gather, rolling in from the far south where they churn the waters in the Bay of Belfalas. The air grows heavy with the scent of rain and forks of hot lightning seem to stab the Arda from their sanctuary of the storm.

I would stand in the doorway of my house and watch the clouds writhe in the darkening sky, carrying sheets of gray rain in their trek across the dry, heated plains. The anticipation, the wait for the squall's arrival always sent a spear of excitement and foreboding through me, as if Nature had awakened an enormous beast, long at sleep, who rose to stretch and turn a baleful eye toward the humble scurryings of Man.

Those same feelings pressed in upon me as I once again found residence in Edoras. The excitement was absent, but the sense of dread grew, lingered and often left me wide-eyed and restless in the dying hours before dawn. And I knew others felt it as well. Men and women went about their work with faces closed tight and frowning. Patrols increased and the horselords went heavily armed any time they left the safety of the town gates. Edoras seemed shriven in a kind of funereal grimness, a widow in the shock of grief. Though it was February, with the morning dew iced upon the grasses and the breath fogging from our mouths when we spoke, the threatening feel of one of those summer storm gathered around us and many often turned to watch the swelling shadow in the east that now all but blotted out the rise of the sun.

Wulfrune and I sometimes shared our misgivings with each other, usually when Sunniva had found her bed for the night. A widow in mourning herself, she had neither smiled nor wept in the fortnight we had taken shelter within Edoras. Wracked with my own guilt over Alger's death and the fact that I never sorrowed over the loss of my own husband, I could offer little succor to her, though I tried to keep her from dwelling on her despair by keeping her busy. Wulfrune did much the same, having my initiate brew draughts and accompany her on her treks through the town. Practical and compassionate in the same gruff manner as her sister, Elswide, the healer gave comfort to both of us in her fashion. While she never let her tears fall, I had seen Sunniva's shoulders sag and heave with dry sobs as Wulfrune held her and patted her back, her patient silence a balm to the grieving girl. With me, she offered a few words and a reassuring promise.

"Your eyes have grown even older since I last saw you, Maeve. Whatever hovers at your shoulder carries a heavy weight. Should you decide to speak of it, know it will remain within these walls and between us."

I patted her hand, giving her a weary smile, feeling even lower than before in the face of this woman's generosity and kindness. "You have offered your home and your table to us, Wulfrune. That is more than enough. We are in your debt."

She huffed and waved me off, muttering in a sharp voice "You and the girl owe me nothing. 'Tis good to have company again. An old woman grows lonely at times, especially when the winter seems long. You two just continue helping me and you can stay as long as you like."

So it was that the three of us settled in with each other, working closely to tend the ill and the wounded among the townfolk. Wulfrune's methods of teaching were much like mine, and I had learned from Udela. As such, I willingly turned over some of Sunniva's training to the elder healer, learning much myself that I had not known. And we were kept busy using our combined skills.

Refugees continued to stream into Edoras from the Westfold. Rumors of orcs and Urak-hai wearing helmets bearing the mark of a white hand on them circulated, and fear grew. The forts built along the now strangled Isen river offered no sanctuary for those fleeing from destroyed villages, and the capital continued to swell with now homeless Rohirrim.

In my rounds to patch up wounded eorlings caught in skirmishes and intermittent fighting with dunlendings and orcs, I often met with Swidhelm. Our first encounter upon my return to Edoras came as a small surprise to me. Dressed in full mail hauberk and coif and preparing for patrol, he strode up to me, catching me in a hard embrace that virtually crushed my ribs and drove the breath from my lungs. It was as different a greeting from that of Grima Wormtongue as a wind storm was to an autumn breeze.

"Healer of Gondor. I was saddened to hear of your village's plight, but heartened to see you are well."

His smile was comforting, and that gleam of masculine approval once again flitted through his eyes as he set me back down on my feet. I smiled in return, my face feeling strange with the expression. It seemed as if years had passed since I last felt the want to do so. This man made it so and I was grateful for his presence and the friendship between us.

We spoke briefly before he joined his comrads as they prepared to ride from Edoras. Since that first meeting, we often met in the stables or the courtyards to exchange greetings and conversation. With each excursion into the territories of the Mark, he returned grimmer and more forbidding, sometimes leading horses with dead riders, and I feared that one day an eorling would lead his mount, Immin, with him draped limp over the saddle.

Wulfrune and Sunniva had both seen us speaking with each other but neither remarked on it, though the older woman sometimes gave me a knowing smile and my initiate would raise inquiring eyebrows. She was but a small child when I first came to Rohan as a bride but she remembered me as both a wife and a widow. Though I think she wondered at my silence regarding Ceolwulf, she kept her thoughts to herself. And in this she remained curious but circumspect as well.

I'm certain such would not have been the case had she known of my interaction with Theoden's advisor. Upon learning of my return to Edoras, Wormtongue had given instructions that I be sent to the Meduseld's kitchens to brew the blood broth and deliver it to him. As Elswide suspected, once I left for home he refused to take it from her or any of the other cooks. I had known, from my first sighting of him in the stables, when he appeared in Cynwise's stall, that such was the case.

When I left Edoras, his skin was not so pallid, showing the faintest blush of color at his cheekbones and on his neck. But in those moments before he stroked my hair and allowed me to weep into the Haradrim silk of his tunic, I had seen the sunkeness of his eyes and the bluish tone of his lips. He would always be pale, untouched by the sun, but he was once again as white as one of the winter dead, though his eyes burned feverishly bright with machinations.

Since the third day of my return to Edoras, I made the journey up the escarpment to the Meduseld each afternoon. As always, the kitchens were a hive of activity with Elswide residing over them in unrivaled governance . She greeted me with a quick nod and a knife wielding hand.

"Use the smaller hearth at the back wall, Maeve. I need the the large ones to roast these boars."

She gestured to the carcasses of three butchered pigs stretched out on a large table. I nodded, as obedient to her wishes as any of her scullery maids. Monarchs did not always rule from thrones or wear crowns, and I was as respectful of the one who commanded an army of cooks as the one who led an eored.

I made short work of the broth, boiling the liver and heart of a sheep along with numerous healing herbs. I added a new one, small berries from a a hardy evergreen tree. Wulfrune had traded for them from a merchant out of a town called Bree, far to the north and many days' journey from the farthest outreaches of the western borders of the Mark.

She gave a few to me. "Try this in his broth. The trader told me midwives brewed them in a tea for women suffering bloodloss after childbearing."

I stared at her in some surprise at her trust. "How do you know they aren't posionous?"

Her shrug was nonchalant and she grinned. "I tried some in a stew I made once. It's a good cooking herb. It didn't kill me. It won't kill him."

Healers experiment on themselves quite often when trying new herbs or draughts. It isn't always the safest practice, but accepted among those who are involved in leechcraft. So Wulfrune's statement was not out of the ordinary. And with her reassurances, I brought the berries with me to boil in the broth.

Their bittersweet aroma teased my nostrls and served to lessen the metallic scent of the broth. I took an experimental taste, pleased with the results. The taste was improved by the addition. I only hoped they served to strengthen the potency of the draught.

I had not forgotten how to traverse the corridors of the Meduseld and the familiar path to Grima's chamber remained shadowed as always. Our customary greetings to each other had not changed and I smiled as his voice caressed my ears and the door closed gently behind me.

"Have you come to poison me, leech?"

"Not today, Lord Grima. Another time, perhaps."

The room was icy with cold and he hovered in front of his hearth, its meager fire doing little to warm the frigid air. I placed the bowl on the table and stepped aside, waiting as he pulled his lota closer around his shoulders and left his place by the hearth to sit on the bench. His pale hands fluttered over the bowl, finding warmth in the steam that wafted in lazy tendrils from the broth. I watched as his nostrils twitched in recognition of a different scent and his hooded eyes snapped up to mine in open suspicion.

"What is different?"

I explained what I added to the brew and offered to taste it for him in order to allay his fears. There was a hesitancy in his answer, as if he was tempted to have me do just that, but to my surprise, he conquered his natural distrust and waved me toward the feeble fire in the hearth.

"Warm yourself as best you can. You may take this when I'm finished."

It always started out this way. We no longer met on a high parapet of the Meduseld. The nights were too cold, and neither of us were inclined to wander too far from a warm fire. That, and I lived with Wulfrune instead of within the Meduseld. She would question, and rightfully so, any late night wanderings I might make. So, I spent a short time within the counselor's chamber, speaking with him as he slowly spooned the broth into his mouth, grimacing all the while, but uncomplaining.

As was his wont, he asked me about my activites during the day. I had come to know Grima well enough to understand that there were no pointless or inane conversations with him. He gleaned knowledge of Edoras' people from many sources. I was one of them. My remarks about my daily work among the inhabitants of the town told him many things, the fear residing in the community, the growing number of injured warriors returning from patrol, the observations of increasing Urak and dunlending activity, their boldness with crossing into Rohan's territories and the strange, frightening mark of the white hand on orc armor.

Grima would sometimes scoff at my remarks about the last, but something about his protests rang hollow, and he would narrow his eyes at my wary expression. He knew something about that symbol, more than the conjecture of a frightened populace. I did not ask him what secret he carried and his eyes warned me that to do so was a dangerous thing.

The part of me that was repelled by his sometimes sinister deamanor fell before the greater part that was bewitched by the same trait. I observed him from the corner of my eye as I crouched to stir the coals and bring the dying fire back to life.

He was still the thin, sly creature I saw lurking in the shadows when I first arrived at the Meduseld many months earlier, and his gaze was no less avid when it rested on Theoden's niece. But something had changed. Or if not changed, evolved, grown stronger in the turn of the seasons. In my time away from Edoras, Grima Wormtongue, who sat before me, shivering with cold and stirring broth with a spoon, had become a power to be reckoned with.

The spoon never ceased in its undulating motions, nor did Grima raise his eyes from watching the patterns forming in the bowl. "I feel your eyes upon me, Maeve Reod. What guilty secret hides behind so comely a face?"

The blood roared dull in my ears as I straightened, stunned by his remark. It was not his compliment that made my hands shake or turned me lightheaded. I struggled to compose my features as I faced him, lacing my fingers together so he would not see their trembling.

"I have no secrets, my lord," and flinched at the catch in my voice as well as the knowing glitter in those all-seeing eyes. I had fallen neatly into his trap. My denial did not address my beauty or lack thereof, nor did I apologize for staring. Instead, I quickly refuted that which was the least of his words, and thus made it the greater. And for a man who carried a wealth of secrets within him, it was immediately obvious I harbored something I had no wish to bring to the light of day.

We stared at one another for long moments, and I felt much as one of Elswide's boars, laid out bare and skinned beneath a sharpened blade. Grima's voice, lyrical and coaxing, whispered across the room and I understood in that moment why Theoden so heeded the words of his counselor.

"Tell me, Maeve. Ages of time have passed in your eyes since the summer days. You are not alone in your darkness."

I curled my fingers into my threadbare skirts and continue to watch him in a choking silence. For a moment he blurred in my vision and I recalled the vague sympthay in his eyes when he sought me out in the stables, the scent of peat smoke on his clothes and the consoling touch of his slender hands in my hair as I bled my anguish against his thin shoulder. And I knew, in some way that Grima would not judge my actions too harshly. His compassion would be miserly compared to Wulfrune's but his understanding greater. Only later would I come to know why I sensed this and that knowledge carried no solace with it.

I faced the hearth again and turned my gaze inward as I told him of my journey to Groa's village, Alger's death and Sunniva's grief. It took time in the telling and there were pauses so I could swallow a sob or wheeze out a breath. When I finished, the light had faded in the chamber and the fire was dead. I kept my eyes cast to the floor, not looking up as I heard Grima rise from the bench and walk to where I stood.

There was a hollowness in the pit of my belly, but a lightness as well. My guilt was no less, but the weight of it did not bow my shoulders as it did before, and for that Wormtongue had earned my undying gratitude. His words made me smile with bitter amusement, though I understood his attempt to lighten my mood.

"I have always thought nobility and charity were the pitfalls of intelligent men, ideals exercised by those who did not have to make their way in the world through wit and struggle. They are the luxuries of the foolish who call themselves brave and the misguided who fancy themselves benevolent."

I faced him then, to find him watching me with a curious expression. "I am neither noble nor benevolent."

The ghost of a smile flitted across his mouth. "No. But you are brave and misguided."

"I should tell Sunniva."

His next words stunned me for they were harsh in their honesty and perception. "Why? So you can revel in self-pity as you confess your actions again?" There was no mercy in the flat tones of his voice, and I could do nothing more than stare at him, speechless. "It was Fate, Maeve. Nothing more. You do not hold the destinies of others in your hands. To tell your initiate will be futile. What do you hope to accomplish? She will not forgive you, nor will she train with you any longer, and all of the knowledge you have passed to her will be wasted. This is your burden, Maeve. How you resolve it should remain within you alone. You have told your tale to one. Let that be enough."

He pinned me to the floor with that piercing stare and I could not find the will to reply with hot indignation in the face of his words. For though they revealed a regrettable flaw within me for indulgent self-pity, they were true and insightful, and I recognized their wisdom.

The shadows of evening lengthened in the chamber, gathering around us in a creeping mist. I caressed Grima with my eyes, wishing to stroke his hair as he once stroked mine, and run my fingers across the bridge of his nose and over the deep lines carved into his forehead and around his mouth. Something in my face must have relayed my thoughts as his features tightened and his hooded eyes gleamed.

The air between us thickened and my breath grew shallow with anticipation as he leaned toward me. There was a tentative eagerness to his movements, an unspoken expectation that I would reject him in some fashion and I closed my eyes at the pleasure of his touch as he ran a fingertip across my collarbone.

"I would call you friend, Maeve Reod."

I opened my eyes and reached up, clasping his hand until his palm lay flat against the upper curve of my breast. I would not be as Beornwyn, who crouched on her knees and turned her face from him. I welcomed him, had craved his affection since I first felt the flutter of his breath against my neck in Eomer's chamber. "And I would call you lover, Grima, son of Galmod."

And this time, it was he who leaned down and touch my mouth with his, and I shivered, not with the cold but with the promise of things to pass between us in the approaching night.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Alphonse de Lamartine - "Limited in his nature, infinite in his desire, man is a fallen god who remembers heaven."

Additional A/N – Thanks to all who have read and all who have reviewed.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - 

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps – 

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	11. A Disturbance in My Heart

The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter Eleven – A Disturbance in My Heart

Except for those moments in Grima Wormtongue's frozen bedchamber, I had never before felt the exuberant rush of passion with a man. Some may say it was the fault of little experience, though I have cast such argument aside as foolish. Before I married Ceolwulf I took a lover, a Haradrim lad of minor nobility and not much older than I was at the time. Manhood rested lightly upon him and I still think of him fondly in the hazy memories of my youth. That first coupling, clumsy and awkward, left me underwhelmed and confused as to what all the fuss was about. That opinion changed little when I went to Ceolwulf's bed, a new and eager bride. I think I was even more disappointed, having come into the marriage with a certain idea of how things should be between a man and his wife. Still, it was Ceolwulf, in the worst of his abuses, who inadvertently presented me with the gift of desire.

By the third year of our marriage, my husband and I had grown to despise each other. I often berated myself for not listening to Udela's sage advice that the young Rohirrim was far more tarnished within than his golden surface would have me believe. His love for fighting and riding was only matched by a love for drinking, gaming and wenching. The first two caused me the greatest grief, the third a blessing in its way as I no longer wished to share his bed.

It was during the Midyear celebrations, when the village hosted a visiting band of eored from the Eastfold, that whatever softer feeling I still harbored for my husband met a swift death. After a day and evening of celebrating and carousing, many of the villagers were in a sickly state. Too much ale and sweet mead had left them with sour stomachs and I was much in demand to brew and deliver draughts that might relieve the worst of the effects. I had not expected to find Ceolwulf at home when I returned, thinking he would likely sink into oblivion at a comrad's house or spend the evening with more welcoming company than my own.

So it was with some surprise that I opened my door to find him seated and slumped across our table, snoring softly and reeking of spirits. I was not unaccustomed to the sight, having seen it many times before. But what put me on my guard was the stranger sitting next to him, awake, sober and watching me with a solemn expression.

He was one of the Eastfold eorlings, an older warrior called Ealdgar and I had noted him in the day's celebrations earlier. A big man, with massive shoulders and thickly muscled legs, he had ridden into the village on a mount of equal stature. He wore his hair bound at the nape and gray streaked his blonde locks and beard. The beard partially covered a jagged scar that traveled from beneath his right eye and across his cheek, a lasting souvenir from an old battle. Despite his roughened appearance, he was handsome enough and I had seen some of the village women eyeing him with speculative, admiring gazes. Why he was suddenly within my home, keeping company with my sot of a husband I had no idea, though the circumstances made me wary.

"You are Ealdgar of Easter Mark."

He nodded once, his features holding their rather grim expression. "And you are Maeve of Gondor."

The address, uttered in a voice both deep and full, made my brows rise. Not Maeve, wife of Ceolwulf or even Maeve, Ceolwulf's woman, but Maeve of Gondor, the name I carried before I wed. It was unusual for him to greet me in that manner, as naming me as wife or mate established an understood boundary, a claim recognized by one man for another's mate. Ealdgar's words didn't bode well for me.

I grew even more alarmed but kept my tone civil and offered both ale and food as befitted a guest, unexpected or otherwise. He refused both and continued to watch me until I sat down across from him and stared at him with a face as unsmiling as his own. "Why are you here?"

His gaze slid to Ceolwulf briefly and when he turned back to me it was to reveal a touch of scorn in his eyes and at the curl of his mouth. "He was too far into his cups to walk so I carried him."

I shrugged and didn't drop my eyes. My husband's inebriation was not my embarrassment and I refused to show shame. "This isn't the first time. My thanks for bringing him back."

"He gamed earlier this evening."

Again I shrugged. Ceolwulf gamed most evenings, especially when head-soaked with mead, which was often. It was Ealdgar's next statement that made me sit up straight, heart beating hard in my chest.

"He gamed with me and lost heavily."

I could feel my cheeks flush with anger and I stared at my spouse in disgust. I didn't blame Ealdgar for coming to collect what he had rightfully won. That; however, presented a problem in itself. There was nothing left with which to pay a debt save an old sow I planned to butcher the following week and a saddle that had seen better days. We had no horses as those had been given up long ago for the same reason. What little we possessed was bartered for my healing skills, and I doubted Ealdgar had a need for a pig, a horseless saddle or the crock of new ale given to me by the alewife, Nelda for treating a burned hand.

"What did he promise you? There is little left that might cover his debt."

The horselord neither leered nor turned lustful in his gaze when he answered. "He promised you for the night."

I could not have been more stunned had he suddenly struck me with his fist. At that moment, had I a knife in my hand, I would have leapt across the table, pulled Ceolwulf's head up and cut his throat. Rage flooded my veins, scorching my insides and I found myself panting as tears filled my eyes. He had sold me, prostituted me to a stranger over the turn of a game, having no more regard for me than the swine that rooted in the mud behind our house.

I made to rise but Ealdgar stopped me with a hand on my arm and it was he who jerked my unconscious mate up by the hair into a half sitting position. Ceolwulf's eyes never opened and a thin line of drool stretched from his lip to his thigh.

Ealdgar's voice was thick with disdain and his eyes flashed with temper. "This is no man, Maeve of Gondor, to sell his own woman as if she was a dunlending harlot." He released Ceolwulf abruptly and his head struck the table with a satisfying thump. I smiled darkly at the thought that such a hit would leave a nasty, painful lump by morning. "Your village holds you in high regard." I stared at him in surprise and he shrugged. "I have ears. And I marked you during the feasting. You were foreign born and I asked who you were."

It took little to surmise that Ceolwulf overheard and found an opportunity. I was sickened at the thought that he may have lured the Easterling into a game with the chance of winning but the reassurance that if he lost there was something of interest to clear the debt.

While I struggled to keep my tears in check, my voice was flat with refusal. "I am not for sale or trade. To any one for any reason."

Ealdgar shook his head and rose, towering over me. "I came not to claim payment, but to warn you. You seem an honorable woman, easy on the eyes, with valuable skills." He thrust his chin toward Ceolwulf. "Renounce him. Find another of better blood, at least one who will see you as something other than a convenient whore."

His words were reflections of my own thoughts and I watched him stride to the door in preparation to leave. The need for revenge against Ceolwulf ate at my gut and suddenly I found a means to have it. I no longer had to deal with the frightening aspect of fighting off a man intent on claiming a prize not rightfullly promised to him. My admiration for Ealdgar and his ethics was great, and in him I saw a way to take back the respect stolen from me by my husband.

"Wait," I called out and he halted, turning back to me with a puzzled expression. "There is no need to leave. You are welcome here this evening." I paused so there would be no misunderstanding between us of my intent. "In all ways."

His sun-bleached brows rose in surprise and he glanced at Ceowulf for a brief moment. "His debt is forgiven, woman."

I stiffened, pulling the tattered remnants of my pride around me. "His debt plays no part in this."

Ealdgar's burgeoning smile was both understanding and amused and he clasped the hand I held out to him, following eagerly as I led him to the bed I no longer shared with the man I wed. And it was there, behind the privacy of a blanket that I finally understood why coupling was so eagerly sought. Fueld by revenge and humiliation, my desire for the battle-hardened warrior with his honorable ways soon became separate from my need to strike out at Ceolwulf, and in the morning I embraced him and kissed him goodbye with a sincere affection. When I heard he had succumbed to the Lung Heat two seasons later, I truly grieved his passing.

I had taken no lover since, and after threatening to poison Ceolwulf's food should he ever try such a tactic again, I was left alone in my bed. I did not miss his presence, but Ealdgar's practiced, gentle touch had left me with a taste for what I knew could be found beneath the linens and once again I sought that in the arms of a man besieged by shadow from within and without.

I returned his kiss gently, cautiously. There was a brittle quality to his touch, a clumsiness that revealed a lack of knowledge in such things. There is an intimacy in touching another's mouth, something that speaks of lovers and the affections between man and maid. While no innocent in the ways of coupling, it was obvious that Grima Wormtongue tread unfamiliar waters with this particular expression.

He remained still as I continued to press my lips against his, exploring the shape of his thin mouth, its contours and texture. There was an overwhelming tension in his body, as if any untoward gesture I might make would have him turn on me in an instant and send me from his chambers with sharply spoken words or even bodily shove me out the door. Rejection can be a brutal mistress and I knew Grima waited for its sudden manifestation, prepared himself for any change in my manner that might give lie to the words I gave him earlier. Only after minutes of nuzzling his face and neck and pressing a chain of kisses along his jaw, did he begin to ease his stance and curve toward me.

I nearly sighed aloud my relief and pleasure when his hands came to rest on my hips and he pulled me closer. His fingers were icy and I could feel their cold touch even through the layers of wool I wore to guard against the winter's chill. The soft threads of his silk tunic caught on the calluses of my palms as I slid my arms around his waist and arched my back, welcoming his embrace.

For all that Grima was unfamiliar with the more refined aspects of lovemaking, he was a quick and adept pupil. The insidious cold of the chamber evaporated beneath the heat of his kiss and I moaned as his tongue slid deep into my mouth, stroking and plundering, demanding an equal response I was only too happy to give. How long we stood locked together, seeking to fuel a fire through a play of tongue and hands, I could not say, but when we broke apart, desperate to breathe, I wished nothing more than to pull him to the hard, unforgiving floor and take him into my body. The banners of high color gracing his normally bloodless features served as proof that his thoughts were similar to mine.

The avid tones of his voice were matched by the glitter in his eyes. "Share my bed, Maeve of Gondor."

My smile must surely have rivaled the sun at that moment. "Aye, my lord. It is my greatest wish."

Grima stared at me for a moment, hunted for and found my sincerity, and returned my smile with a brief curving of his lips. I laced my fingers into his and followed willingly as he led me to his bed, piled high with blankets and furs. Despite the anticipation I felt at finally taking this strange but fascinating man as a lover, I was equally looking forward to crawling beneath those layers of covers and finding respite from the cold.

There was a creak of bed ropes as they stretched and gave beneath Grima's weight. He sat on the edge and spread his knees, pulling me forward so that I stood between his splayed thighs. His regard of me was more open than it had ever been, and there was a pleasure in his gaze that echoed in his touch as he ran his pale hands over my cyrtel.

Udela, in her wealth of wisdom, had always taught me to trust my instincts. Those few times I had disregarded her sage advice had resulted in tragedies of my own making and a sense of failure that could have been avoided had I only listened to one far more knowing than I was. But this time I paid heed to her long remembered words and followed my inner voice that urged me to place my trust in the hands of one who found such an emotion unfamiliar and frightening.

Grima's hands continued to slowly stroke my body even as his eyes lit with curiosity at my actions. I released my hair from its braid, grateful for its dubious warmth as it fell against my shoulders and over my breasts. While a part of me dreaded removing my clothing without the benefit of a roaring fire nearby, I did not hesitate to undo laces and ties, though my fingers were nearly numb. When I finally stood before him, naked and shivering, it was with the sure knowledge that my instincts had not led me astray.

There was a newfound reverence to Grima's touch, an admiration that had little to do with my appearance and everything to do with my willingness to strip myself of the armor of my clothing and stand before him, clothed only in chilled skin and the faded scars left by the long ago birth of a stillborn child. I suppressed a shudder and the nearly overwhelming need to cross my arms over my breasts, not from a misplaced sense of modesty but for the sheer need to find any warmth available. My toes curled against the icy stones of the floor and my teeth began to chatter, but I waited and watched as Grima's eyes traveled over me and I saw the dawning understanding of my actions in his gaze. As if pulled from a trance, he suddenly rose and flung back the blankets, urging me to slide beneath them.

I nearly groaned with relief, wrapping the nearest furs around me until only my eyes were visible. I watched, fascinated as he quickly shed his clothing, revealing white skin and slender legs. He was a lightly built man, showing only a slight thickening at the waist that comes with age and a lack of physical pursuits. I wondered at his years. Grima's eyes were ancient and his sickness could well have aged him beyond the truth of his years, but I did not think him old, certainly not enfeebled. And his potency was not compromised as evidenced by the obvious proof of his arousal as he turned to face me and crawled beneath the blankets.

I immediately wrapped my arms around him, lamenting the loss of the small amount of warmth I had built around me as he returned my embrace. However, it wasn't long before the cold was forgotten and we held each other beneath the comfort of the furs. He lay yielding beneath my touch, breathing softly as I ran my hands over his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the curving bones of his ribs barely hidden beneath the stretch of pale skin. His hands caressed my back, the roundness of my buttocks, learning the shape and feel of my body as it entwined around his.

We kissed again, and then again, and I reveled in his taste, the feel of his tongue in my mouth, the shape of his lips against my teeth. To many he was a scourge, an unpleasant blight with which to deal and behold, but I found him beautiful, uncommon in his aspect, extraordinary in his intelligence. I gave form to my admiration in the stroke of my hands over his torso and thighs, the laving of my tongue on the small dark nipples that tightened against my touch.

Grima moaned, the sound low and desperate in the gathering darkness that swallowed the bedchamber in shadows. Soon, all I could discern was the black of his hair against a white fur and the line of his jaw as he arched his back and tilted his head in pleasure.

I was no longer cold, the chills that had wracked my body destroyed by the heat of desire feeding my blood. I continued to caress my lover's thin frame, squirming lower so as to dip my tongue into the shallow indentation of his navel and ride my thumbs along the sharp angles of his hipbones. The coarse curls at the juncture of his thighs tickled my cheek and I rose to loom over him, feeling the sudden stillness in his body as he waited to find out what I would do next.

Grima's groans were loud and echoing and I smiled in satisfaction at his reaction to my fingers wrapping around his manhood, stroking and teasing the smooth hard shaft and swollen head. Droplets of his seed threaded through my fingers and I bent to take him into my mouth, caressing, tasting, pulling him deeper until he thrashed on the bed, wrapping his fingers in my hair to urge me closer. I suckled him long and hard until the repeated pulsing along his shaft warned me that he would soon find release in my mouth. While I was eager to experience such a thing with him, I wanted this first time to be between my thighs.

I raised my head, smiling with a certain satisfaction at the sound of his breathing, hitched and labored. His hands slipped out of my hair, grazing my shoulders, cupping my breasts as I again rose above him , and it was my turn to moan as he caressed and gently pinched my nipples between his fingers. The musk of desire was thick around us as I gripped his hips with my thighs and lowered myself onto his erection. Grima arched against me, sliding in easily, aided by the slick heat of my desire for him. There was the sweet feeling of fullness as I took him, of muscles long unused that flexed against the penetration that stretched me as he plunged deep.

I don't know who was more lost to the sensations, he or I, or if it even mattered. All I know is that we were both caught within a high tide of want and craving, a crawling need that began at my lower back and traveled along my spine. It gathered strength as I slid upward and then down repeatedly against Grima, bracing my hands on either side of his head as he suckled my breasts and clutched my hips in a grip guaranteed to leave its mark in the morning. He kissed me and the touch bore none of the clumsiness or hesitancy of the one by the hearth, only a ravening, silent appeal that I give more, take more. I acquiesced to his silent request, increasing the pace of my movements, pressing him into the bed with my body until I feared I would smother him with my enthusiasm.

He returned my fervor, thrusting hard within me even as he strove to slide his tongue to the very back of my throat. The arch of his pelvis against mine rubbed the most sensitive place between my thighs and the heat that spiraled along my back found center there, radiating outward until I stiffened and groaned hard into Grima's mouth, finding a release that left me gasping, shaking and dripping with sweat. I was barely aware of his own groans and the sudden rapid pulsing within me, but felt immense pleasure at the flow of wet heat as he came inside of me.

I collapsed onto his chest, slick with perspiration, and nestled my face into the hollow of his throat. He took in great, heaving breaths and I could feel the shaking of his hands as he caressed the back of my thighs. The silence between us was neither awkward nor stifling, and I wondered idly how it would be to have many nights like this with Grima Wormtongue.

Soon his hands traveled upward, drifting lightly over my back and shoulder blades and down my arms. I could feel the warm draft of his breath as it stirred my hair. His voice had a sated quality to it, even with its sibilant tones. "What payment will you ask of me, Maeve of Gondor?"

I did not wrench myself away from him, expecting such a question at some point and finding no insult in it. His experiences were confined to women such as Beornwyn, and I suspected were not much different during his time in Harad. I raised a hand, running my fingers along his tense jaw and up into his dark hair, tangled and damp with sweat, and kissed his throat before answering.

"My payment will be a full night in this bed, Lord Grima. "I let a small amount of teasing into my voice. "A steep price to be sure, but worth your time."

I could not see his face but heard the answering smile in his voice, mixed with relief. "Again I find succor in the darkness, and once more it is of a woman's making. Only this time, it is far more pleasurable."

I frowned at his cryptic words, not understanding the meaning behind them, but sensing a wrongness there that gave lie to the surface pleasantries. I shrugged the worrisome feeling away, reasoning they had no place here. Grima's eager response to my kiss and his quick movements that soon had me on my back and him above me drove all other thoughts from my mind.

He made love to me twice more in the waning hours of the night, each time as intense as the first. Only near the birth of the meager dawn did we seek true slumber. We lay entwined beneath the blankets, his body curved against my back and hips as he rested his head near mine, breathing gently into my ear. It was a comforting sound, one that would have soon lulled me to sleep had I not been jolted awake by one softly spoken word.

Until that moment, I had wished on occasion to be a certain Shield Maiden, blonde, beautiful, noble. It is true what they say. Do not be careless with your wishes. Sometimes they are granted and their truths can be painful. For a brief second, my wish was given to me, and I was no longer Maeve of Gondor and that knowledge caused me to close my eyes in despair even as Grima pulled me close and buried his face in my hair.

"Eowyn," he whispered.

Please review.

Additonal A/N – Based upon the arbitrary nature of 's rules regarding what defines R and NC17 ratings, it is possible that this story may be removed for TOS violations if complaints are lodged against it. That being said, I also upload this fiction onto my Live Journal under the name whitemunin (no spaces in the name).

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Saul Bellow - "There was a disturbance in my heart, a voice that spoke there and said, I want, Iwant, I want! It happened every afternoon, and when I tried to suppress it it got even stronger."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps –

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	12. An Unbridled Desire

The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter Twelve – An Unbridled Desire

Rumor and conjecture travel swiftly in a large household. Observations are noted and passed on from ear to ear until that which was first witnessed is lost or warped into something else entirely by the time it reaches the ears of those of whom others spoke. I found this to be true when I returned to the Meduseld kitchens that cold, clear morning after my time with Grima Wormtongue.

There was a brief, expectant hush as I stepped into the chamber with the empty bowl that once held the blood broth from the previous night. For a moment, all eyes rested upon me, curious and speculative until Elswide snarled a warning that if some did not find enough work to occupy their time, she would be certain to find it for them. The room instantly returned to a bustling hive of activity, though I knew I was surreptiously watched. The cook turned to face me, her expression concerned. I winced when she spoke, her effort to whisper failing miserably as her voice carried to all corners of the kitchen.

"Did he force you, Maeve?"

Despite the melancholy that plagued me, I could not help but smile. Never before had I seen scullery maids or lads make such effort to look busy but be as quiet as possible so as to hear my answer. I did not bother to lower my voice, as Elswide's question was known to one and all. "No. I was willing." I did not miss the look Leofe sent Beornwyn who shrugged, as if to ask "What is this to me?"

Elswide's features soured with distaste, and she shook her head. "You're a strange one, Maeve of Gondor. You have the attentions of a fine Rohirrim warrior yet you lay with one who seems but half a man."

Her slur angered me. While I was resentful of Grima's obsession with Eowyn, I could not remain silent in the face of an undeserved slight. Wormtonuge might be many things unpleasant, but by no means was he half a man.

"You are my friend, Elswide, but you know not of what you speak. Besmirch him if you must, but not in my presence."

Her eyes widened at my defense of the counselor, but she did not argue, only nodded and offered breakfast. I refused, explaining that Wulfrune would worry if I didn't return to her home soon. Still, she didn't send me away empty handed, but sent a basket of bread, cheese and a crock of porridge, saying she owed her sister for help rendered at an earlier date.

When I walked into Wulfrune's house, arms ladened with the morning meal, the older healer looked up briefly, never pausing in grinding herbs in a mortar. "The weary return bearing gifts. Up all night with a sick lad?"

I set Elswide's offerings on the table and went in search of bowls and spoons. Wulfrune deserved no less than my honesty. "No. I was with a man."

That statement caused her to cease her grinding and she gazed at me with knowing eyes and a small smile. "Were you? Well, a far better way to spend an evening than draining an infection or tending a wound, to be sure." Her look grew curious as I laughed. I had no doubt that as soon as she learned with whom I had spent the evening, she would be quick to revise that opinion.

I glanced around the room, peeking into the deserted alcove that served as a communal sleeping area for the three of us. "Where is Sunniva?"

Wulfrune abandoned her task and set to slicing the bread and cheese as I poured the still hot porridge into the bowls. "It's just the two of us this morning. Your initiate went to pay a visit to a friend here in Edoras, a girl who once lived in your village named Breguswid."

I vaguely remembered Breguswid. A precocious, flighty girl, an appropriate foil to the more serious minded Sunniva. I was not surprised to learn that they had remained friends even after Breguswid had made Edoras her home.

Wulfrune did not question me further concerning my whereabouts the night before, though I often caught her frown from the corner of my eye as I spooned porridge into my mouth. I was tired, sleepy, and my muscles ached. I wanted a bath and a few hours to close my itching eyes.

As if hearing my thoughts, she rose from the table and gestured to the small hearth with its cheery fire. "Use the spare kettle to heat water for a bath. I'm off to purchase goods from a merchant out of the Haradwaith." Her lip curled in disgust. "Repulsive man, crawling with vermin, but his oils are of high quality and a good price. Do you need anything?"

I shook my head and stood , helping her to clear the table and put away any remaining food into her larder. "No, just sleep. When you come back, awaken me if I am still sleeping. I don't wish to waste the day."

When Wulfrune left, I spent my time of solitude heating water and preparing a bath. Only the wealthy households have the luxuries of large basins in which to completely submerge, and servants to carry the water. I had never experienced such extravagance and was quite happy to stand naked in front of the hearth's heat and wash from a bowl with a cake of precious soap.

My thighs were bruised, and there were the faint marks of fingers at my waist and on my arms. By rights, I should have been pleased and in good spirits, having spent hours in the arms of a lover whose touch I had craved for many months. But I was and am a greedy woman and wanted more than what Grima Wormtongue was capable of giving. Tears stung my eyes as I washed my legs and belly, and they were tears of both anger and anguish. I knew his obsession, had always been aware of it. But such awareness did not make it easy to accept. I had wanted it to be my name he spoke in the depths of a sated sleep. And it should have been, and the more I dwelled on it, the angrier I became.

By the time I finished my bath and dressed the urge to sleep had fled, and I paced the confines of the small house in agitation. No longer able to bear the silence and my own jealousies, I gathered up my cloak and left, choosing to seek out Wulfrune and her trader as a means to occupy my thoughts.

The morning sun did little to warm those who worked and gathered outside and my breath steamed before me in tendrils as I returned greetings from those I passed in my search for the elder healer. So intent was I on finding her that I paid little heed to much around me and nearly walked head long into a horse's flank.

I stumbled back, startled, and heard the animal snort with what surely sounded like disgust at my clumsiness. The rider's laughter was familiar, and I looked up to see Swidhelm's smiling face. A welcome sight it was, and I smiled back, glad beyond reason that I had chanced upon him riding Immin toward the lower gates.

"And where do you rush to this cold morning, Maeve of Gondor?"

He sat regal on his long-legged mount, and I admired the play of light in the long hair that blew around his face and shoulders. So very different from the wan and sickly Grima. My thoughts of the counselor were less than charitable at that moment and had Elswide repeated her slander of him, I would have been less inclined to come to his defense.

People swirled around us like eddies in a pool, and I brushed stray tendrils of hair out of my eyes and shielded my face from the sun's rays with my hand. "I was searching for a friend. And you, horse lord? Do you ride patrol this day?"

Swidhelm shook his head. "No. I take Immin out to exercise him. It keeps his lungs strong." There was a pause, and I saw a gleam enter his pale eyes. He held out a hand to me. "Ride with me, healer."

My first instinct was to refuse. For all that I had a small amount of free time, I knew Wulfrune would welcome any help I offered in the way of bartering or giving advice to those with questions regarding illnesses. I opened my mouth to decline the offer when I felt the sudden strong sensation of being watched. I turned my gaze and quickly scanned the crowd of people who passed by and around me. I saw nothing at first, but the feeling didn't lessen, and it was actually Immin who helped me locate its source. The animal had a more refined instinct than I, the result of being war-trained and sensitive to predators. The stallion turned his head to gaze to my left, and I followed his lead.

For just a moment I saw a flash of black clothing and equally black hair among the throng of pale haired folk. Grima's pallid features were icy with reproach as he caught my gaze before turning malevolent eyes on Swidhelm who awaited my answer with an outstretched hand. I bristled with indignation and decided then and there to draw a little blood of my own.

I turned back to Swidhelm with a wide smile, and his brows lifted. "Aye, I will ride with you, horse lord." I grasped his hand and he swung me up in front of him. Immin shifted his stance with the burden of my additional weight but didn't protest, and soon we were riding through the lowest gates of Edoras and onto the wide stretch of grassland.

We rode hard and swift over the flat plain, and whatever lingering drowsiness I felt was banished by the blast of frigid wind that buffeted us as Immin stretched his legs and galloped past the walls of Edoras. It was exhilirating, a far greater rush of excitement than any ride I had ever taken on my sturdy Cynwise. Swidhelm was as his comrades, born to the saddle, and Immin was an exceptional mount, sensitive to his rider's every movement and command. We rode back through the gates far too soon, and Swidhelm helped me dismount near the place where we first met.

The eorling's eyes narrowed with laughter, highlighting the fine lines fanning from their corners. "You've the look of a woman who has rolled in the grasses with her man, Maeve of Gondor."

I did not take exception to his teasing and laughed with him. "Methinks you have done such a thing many times with many women in your years, Swidhelm."

There was a certain smugness to his posture as he leaned back in the saddle and gave me a mock leer. "Aye, I have, but not yet with an outlander woman. It may prove an interesting experience to do so."

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, muttering of the ways of braggarts and men too sure of their own prowess. He laughed at my playful scorn before his demeanor changed to one more serious. "I would seek you out again, Maeve, if you are willing."

I paused before answering. I had done a thing both small and spiteful by accepting Swidhelm's invitation to ride. I had wished and hoped to incite a jealousy in Grima. I did not know if it worked, but I knew I would not use this man in such a way again. He was a good man, honest in his dealings with me. He did not deserve any of my deceptions, no matter my reasonings for them.

"Seek me again, horse lord, but as friend to friend for now, if you are willing."

There was a brief disappointment in his eyes before he nodded and smiled, saluting me with a touch to his forehead. "Then Immin and I will see you another cold morning, fair Maeve." He wheeled the stallion around and was soon lost to my sight amidst the milling crowd. I thought of him often as I spent the better part of the day helping Wulfrune and Sunniva with the more mundane tasks of washing, cooking and tending to minor injuries from visitors.

As evening approached, a hollow nervousness grew in my belly and I once again wrapped my cloak around my shoulders to make my way to the Meduseld's kitchens. Wulfrune stopped me at the door, her face drawn with worry. "Be cautious, Maeve. I know with whom you lay last eve. No good can come of this."

I did not take her to task for her advice was sound and I recognized the wisdom of her words. 'Twas a pity I did not heed it. I could picture Udela shaking her head at my stubbornness. I patted Wulfrune's hand and walked out into the darkening streets.

The lit torches of the Hall beckoned me and I greeted Hama, the door warden, with a bow. He nodded and signaled that the doors be opened to me. The hall itself was beginning to fill with the Rohirric nobility who gathered to dine with the king. I made my way along the back walls, unnoticed until I passed out of the main court and into the maze of corridors leading to the kitchens. This time I gathered no attention to me as the kitchens were, as always, chaotic and bustling with the effort to prepare and serve the evening meal.

I nodded to Elswide who acknowledged me with a quick smile before cuffing a maid for carelessly wielding a cleaver. I made the broth and ladled it into its bowl, ignoring the sudden nervous tremor in my hands as I placed it on a tray and carried it through the kitchens and out into the shadowed hallways. I was thankful to find my voice steady and cool as I called out my presence to Grima and the door opened to allow me entrance.

As always, it was icy in the room and Grima stood at his customary spot near the door and watched me place the bowl on his table. He did not greet me with his usual "Have you come to poison me, leech?" Only watched in a brooding silence as I straightened and turned to face him. There was an awkwardness between us, one not present in our previous meetings and I mourned inwardly that a night of such intense intimacy would lead to this stilted awareness. My throat felt tight and I feared I might resort to humiliating tears in front of him. So I bowed briefly, refusing to meet his eyes and made to walk out the door.

It slammed shut and suddenly Wormtongue stood before me, gripping my arms with hard fingers and I could feel the heaviness of his stare boring into me until raised my head and stared back, opening my mouth to demand that he release me and allow me to leave. The words died in my throat as I met his gaze.

Such anger gleamed in those eyes, a black swirling pool of bitterness cloaking that which gave me pause. Pain, disappointment, a defeated resignation, as if some feeble spark of hope had found life only to be snuffed out beneath a booted heel. In that swift moment, before he brought his mouth down on mine in a brutal kiss which tasted of blood and rage, I felt ashamed.

Grima had stung my pride, cut a small wound in my heart, giving testament to the fact that he had come to mean a great deal to me, more so than was safe. But while his wistful murmuring of Eowyn's name nearly brought me to tears, it had not been spoken with cruelty. It was the unguarded emotion of a man in the throes of sleep, grasping at a dream that would always slip through his fingers. I could not feel great sympathy for his obsession as I still ached with the knowledge of who I was and who I could never be. But I did feel great shame. Unlike him, I had purposefully lashed out, seeking to wound as I had been wounded, and I felt no triumph at the jealousy in Grima's voice or actions, for they were the results of my malice and the willful aim to make him bleed in some fashion.

I bore his kiss, submissive to its possession and its need to bend me to its will. It was not an expression of tenderness or affection, but one of power and the claiming of territory. When he finally drew away from me, flushed and short of breath, my lips stung and I wiped at the warm trickle of blood on my chin. A flash of regret, instantly buried beneath the simmering anger that continued to burn in his eyes, told me he was repentant of his actions, but he did not let go of my arms, and his voice was frigid with contempt.

"Like the rest, Maeve Reod, you long for a fair-haired eorling, one pleasing of face and form who can ride a woman as well as a horse." His fingers dug into my arms, tightening like prison bands and he sneered openly, the expression so malevolent I could not help but reel back, repulsed. He noted my action and his flush deepened. "What did you seek in my bed, leech? A moment of whimsy? A need to satisfy a curiosity for the strange and peculiar? Did you wonder if the Worm would bed a woman as other men did?"

His scorn was withering, tempered only by the barely suppressed desperation in his voice. The silence grew as he waited for my answer and I chose my words carefully. "I have had a fair-haired eorling. In fact, I have had two. They were men, as all men, with both good and terrible residing within them." I reached up and touched Grima's cheek with fingers bloodied from my injured mouth. He flinched but did not pull away or release my arms. "I have longed for one man. He gave me a book, told me tales of Black Numenoreans and let me see through his eyes the beauty of the Misty Mountains. He is a creature of winter and shadow, neither fair haired nor of pure blood, yet I have dreamed of him and touched him and felt him within me. It was all I wished for and more so." My voice quavered as I continued to speak and I watched his features soften at my words. "He embraced me in his slumber, and I believed that I had pleased him as much as he pleased me." There was the faintest hint of a smile around his mouth but I did not answer it with one of my own. "And then he spoke a woman's name, and it was not mine." The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and he dropped his hands from my arms, stepping back to stare at me, stunned by my words.

I regretted my earlier behaviour with Swidhelm, as I had used one person to hurt another, but I did not regret the words I spoke at that moment. "Like the rest, Grima Wormtongue, you long for a fair-haired shield maiden, one pleasing of face and form who is of noble blood and will be the mother of kings. What did you seek in _my _arms, king's counselor?" I saw him wince as I used many of his own words, but could feel no sense of victory in his discomfort, only a weary acceptance and I turned away to gather the bowl of cold blood broth and return to the kitchen. "I am not Beornwyn to be used, nor Eowyn to be worshipped."

I made to skirt around him, forgetting the protocol of bowing in my bid to escape. Grima caught my braid in one hand as I passed him and I lost my grip on the bowl. It fell from my hands, shattering into bits and shards of broken pottery as the soup splashed the hem of my cyrtel. The faint tugging sensation along my scalp warned me that Wormtongue had wrapped my hair in his fist, tethering me more securely to him. It was an unnecessary precaution. I had no intention of fighting him for my freedom. Instead, I stood with my back to him, stiff and waiting as he circled around me until my vision was filled with the sight of furred lota and intricate Haradrim embroidery. It was an effort to keep my eyes open as his graceful fingers fluttered along my jaw and down my throat. For all that I wished to distance myself from him and the threat he posed to my heart, I could not free myself from the bewitchment of his touch.

"No," he whispered. "You are Maeve, to be admired."

I shook my head in denial. "I am no royal shield maiden."

He sighed gently into my hair and I could not help but lean into his warmth. "And I am no battle-worthy horse lord. Yet you are here, and I am glad for it."

I met his gaze, seeing no deception in his words. He seemed tired, worn down by the machinations in which he engaged on a daily basis. The shadows darkening the hollows beneath his eyes were those not so much of illness as of weariness, and his pallor was more pronounced than the previous day. I wanted to stay, to offer comfort, to appease the desire I had for him that grew with each passing moment that I spent in his company. Yet I would not ask. For all that he truly intended no insult when he spoke Eowyn's name, I refused to play the part of her wraith, whether it was in his dreams or no.

Something of my musings must have played across my features, that or Grima, with his keen perception that had earned him the ear of a king, sensed my thoughts. He pulled me against him, pressing his thighs to mine so that I might feel the proof of his desire for me. "I see no Rohirrim maid here, only a woman with the face of summer and eyes of promise." His voice deepened, turned coaxing and earnest. "Despite what you believe, Maeve Reod, my dreams are harsh and leave me aged. It is the waking hours that I have come to favor for my thoughts are lighter and often turn to an outland healer and the pleasure of her touch. I gave her a book. She gave me her company."

My knees nearly buckled with the weight of his words, and his arms tightened against my back, holding me upright as I sagged against him. "Stay," he murmured against the corner of my mouth_. "I know who you are,_ Maeve of Gondor, and I wish no other here."

I wove my fingers into his hair. "The king awaits you in the Hall, Lord Grima."

He sighed and there was true regret in the sound. I felt a warmth flood my veins as he stared at me with a hopeful expression. "You will remain here until I return?"

Wulfrune's warning echoed in my head but I pushed it aside like a worrisome gnat. "Aye, my lord. I will remain and build a fire to warm this crypt of a bedchamber."

His lips twitched with amusement at my beratement. "Here, you will call me Grima, Maeve Reod."

I nodded my acceptance of his wishes and watched as he walked out the door. It was a curious thing to observe. His posture changed, shoulders hunching so that he appeared smaller and there was the odd fettered step to his feet that gave him a lurking quality. And it was then I knew what I always suspected. There were two faces to Grima Wormtongue and it was disturbing to watch each take form, as one made my blood heat with desire and the other my skin to crawl with revulsion.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Quentin Crisp - "Whenever we confront an unbridled desire we are surely in the presence of a tragedy in the making."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - 

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps – 

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	13. Transient Solicitations

The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter Thirteen – Transient Solicitations

Happiness is an odd thing, an emotion that holds many different meanings for each person and is often found in the most unlikely of places. It is fleeting, easily destroyed by a thought, a word, an action. But when one experiences it, life becomes an easier burden to carry, and even the darker moments of existence seem a little lighter.

So it was that I felt such things in the idyllic days of February, when winter's last grasp held onto the lands of the Mark with withered hands. The shadow grew in the east, and a once virile king fell slowly to ruin. Warriors returned to Edoras, wounded or dead, and those who survived skirmishes spoke of Uruks bearing the mark of a white hand. Through it all, as I treated broken limbs and helped prepare the dead for burial, there was within me a brighter spirit, and despite the well-meaning warnings of those close to me, I welcomed its source.

My days passed swiftly as I worked with Wulfrune and Sunniva to tend the populace of Edoras. There were other healers and midwives within the town, and all were kept busy as refugees continued to stream in from the harried Westfold, bearing their sick, their pregnant and their wounded. My initiate and I were soon familiar faces among the townfolk, and it was a relief to see Sunniva slowly emerge from the dry-eyed silence of her grief. Soon she would truly mourn the loss of her husband and finally begin to heal. I still carried my guilt concerning Alger's death, but kept such things to myself. As Grima advised, it would serve nothing to confess my actions to her. I had unburdened my secret to him. It would be enough.

My routines in the evening altered little. I ate my dinner with the women whose house I shared, then made the short uphill climb to the Meduseld where Elswide always greeted me and reserved a small hearth so that I could make the blood broth for Grima. There was little change in the servants' attitudes toward me. In their eyes, I had simply become as Beornwyn and any other like her who had serviced the king's advisor. What did invite their whisperings was the fact that I had become the only one to do so. The women, especially, were curious. I spoke nothing of my time with Grima as my hours with him were private and no concern of theirs. My status had not changed in the household. I dressed the same, did not sport a fancy bauble or two, flash coin or gifts, and still kept residence outside the Meduseld. They were unsure of my place in the household hierarchy but remained friendly if a little baffled at my willingness to lay with Wormtongue without obvious benefit of payment or social elevation.

I think they would have been surprised or amused had I revealed my thoughts on the subject. I was enamoured of Wormtongue. Of that there could be no doubt, nor was I in the habit of lying to myself. He occupied my thoughts more often than not, and I came to live for the evenings when the sun began its descent into the west, and I made my way to the Golden Hall. It was difficult not to smile foolishly at him when he opened his chamber door and bid me enter with his daily portion of blood broth.

In the first days that I took him as lover, there was little conversation between us, only a fire that burned brightly and demanded to be fed. Any lack of knowledge Grima may have suffered concerning the mating dance between man and woman was soon rectified beneath the heavy furs draped across his bed. I still cannot say why the heat of desire burned so hot within me for this man. Truly, he was neither handsome nor possessed of a warrior's vigor in the thin, hard muscles of his body. Sickly and vulpine in his movements, yet I ached for him, was consumed by the ardor in those sly, narrowed eyes. I took him eagerly into my body again and again, until we were both exhausted and drenched with the sweat of our exertions. I began to understand his obsession with Eowyn, for I became obsessed with him, and it was a hunger that gnawed at me, even as I lay beneath him, my legs wrapped around his waist in a hard embrace.

He did not speak her name again in sleep though I am certain he dreamed of her. I could not begrudge him such thoughts as she was indeed beautiful in many aspects. She had been a part of his life, after a fashion, for many years, and the few times I had seen them converse there was no mistaking that even though she despised him, Eowyn of Rohan was as drawn to Grima Worntongue as he was to her.

Still, for those hours that he was awake and alone with me, I held his full regard, and as the days passed, his manner eased. We would lie in his bed, his head on my breast or belly, hands caressing my thighs gently, and speak of his early years in Rohan and Harad. It was again like the summer evenings we spent on the outer walls of Edoras, when I first arrived and came to know the beguiling man behind the baleful countenance.

"I have no memory of my mother and only wish to have none of my father."

I stroked his tangled hair away from his temple, sorrowing for a child born but despised. I knew nothing of his sire, Galmod, save that he had once been a lowly minister in Theoden's household. But Grima's words and the tone of his voice said much. There are times when it is a blessing to not know certain things or certain people. It allows us to sleep peacefully at night. And I had no doubt that Grima's rise to power within the Rohirric court had little to do with any influence of his father's and everything to do with his own will and resourcefulness.

I asked a question that had drifted through my thoughts many times after meeting Wormtongue. "Was your mother of Dunland?"

He stiffened in my arms, rigid with a heavy silence that told me I tread on dangerous ground. I continued caressing his hair and the side of his face, seeking to reassure him that my inquiry bore no hidden malice. "The woman whose husband I treated and who widowed my initiate was Dunlending." I reminded him. "Groa had the same dark hair and stature that you do. Her man also." I knew my tactic worked as Grima slowly relaxed, his muscles again pliant against my leg and hip. "Despite what the Rohirrim may think, Dunlendings bleed red blood as they do, love and die as they do."

Grima shifted his position, rolling onto me. There was a speculative glint in his eyes that matched the puzzled half smile hovering at his mouth. "Are you merciful because you are a healer? Or are you a healer because you are merciful?"

It was an easy question to answer and I returned his smile. "I became Udela's initiate in my seventh season because a wounded bird died in my care."

His eyes narrowed with interest. "Unusual. She chose you because you killed something?"

I laughed. "No. I tried my very best to save it, but birds are fragile creatures, and it died sometime in the early morning. What impressed Udela was my dedication to it. I stayed up all night, doing all I could to bring it back to health. When it no longer breathed, I mourned, buried it and proclaimed to her that next time, I would do things differently." I ran a gentle finger down the long slope of Grima's nose. "There is more to healing than setting broken bones, son of Galmod. Sometimes, it is simply the willingness to hold the hands of the dying through the darkest hours and offer solace to those they leave behind."

Firelight played across his pale shoulders, deepening the black of his hair. He stared at me for a long moment, as if contemplating my words and his response to them. I had nearly forgotten my original question, but he did not. "Yes. My mother was Dunlending, or so I was told. A girl mayhap not so savage or unclean and my father less discerning about who he bedded, but still unwilling to let any of his blood be raised among mongrels."

I could hear the bitterness seep into his voice. Caught between two peoples, outcast in both. And the harsh childhood he did not speak of cloaked him still, manifesting itself in a thirst for power, a need for acceptance and a will to control. Words seemed trivial, for what could I say in the face of a grim reality? The scorned child had become a dour man with hidden anger and questionable motives. Instead, I traced the bones of his pallid features with my fingertips, learning the curve of his cheeks, the deepening hollows beneath his eyes, the high slope of his forehead. His mouth was soft against mine, and I felt the flutter of his lashes as he closed his eyes and sank into my embrace, as much for comfort as for desire. I was a healer because I was merciful. I was this man's lover because I was captivated.

The days and nights passed in this way, and I refused to consider the future. For a short time, I wished only to live the moment and be content. But there was no denying the world around me, and it began to crack with the weight of danger rising from the Westfold and the writhing gloom from Mordor that darkened the noonday sky.

I often caught glimpses of members of the royal household. Eowyn, beautiful and stately, seemed shrouded in ice, cold and just as brittle. She had been reserved but friendly enough when I dealt with her during my first journey to Edoras, but now there was a distance to her as if a door had shut to the outer world, leaving only a wintry façade for others to see. Her brother seemed as forbidding, and talk among the servants revealed that he had withdrawn his folk and their horse herds from the East-mark. Only scouts remained to observe and report of orc activity from Mordor. Rumors flew among the people of Edoras. Conjectures that Saruman of Isengard was in league with Mordor inundated the marketplaces and mead halls, and Theodred, the king's son had joined forces with Grimbold, the marshal of the beleagured Westfold, to secure and hold the fords of Isen.

As the windy month of March approached, I began to worry. The land of the Mark seemed squeezed from two sides, and if the rumors were true, Rohan was under attack. War, beyond the bloody skirmish or raid, loomed on the horizon, and many prayed and spent sleepless nights wondering what the future held. Through it all I held my silence with Grima, but watched, both fascinated and repelled, as he seemed to swell with power, glutted on a dark knowledge that revealed itself in the sway he held in the Rohirric court and over Theoden himself.

For the man who sat on Rohan's throne, palsied and diminished with age and sickness, was not the king. No, the king crouched, uncrowned, at the foot of the dais and surveyed the Hall with calculating eyes, noting this Rohirrim's harsh words and that one's disapproving stare, and another's whispered malcontent. During the day he would slink through the shadows of the Meduseld, watching, learning and murmuring his spells into the ears of a fading old man. And at night, when the arc of the moon's journey carried her to the far side of the horizon, he would stare out over the fields of grass, always towards Isengard, with a face painted in the warring colors of triumph and fear.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by George Eliot - "For character too is a process and an unfolding...among our valued friends is there not someone or other who is a little too self confident and disdainful; whose distinguished mind is a little spotted with commonness; who is a little pinched here and protuberant there with native prejudices; or whose better energies are liable to lapse down the wrong channel under the influence of transient solicitations?"

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps –

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	14. Men in Great Place

The Allure of the Dark Angel

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ (and Brad Dourif) gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter Fourteen – Men in Great Place

It was called the War of the Ring, and it changed the future of men. One king rose and another was brought low. Men died, kingdoms fell and scribes went blind in poor lantern light as they recorded it all. History would never know of me or others like me; peasants and soldiers caught up in the far-reaching events that would close an age in battle and the renderings of high magic. It didn't matter, for we told our small tales around the village fires and took delight in the expressions on our children's faces as they learned of elfin queens, a cursed ring and the return of a long-lost heir.

We told the stories as the books would tell them. Great battles and heroic deeds. The bravery of warriors, the cowardice of orcs. And we kept back those smaller things that bore no glory or nobility. With those heroic deeds, there was loss and heartbreak, things that made one weep quietly in the dead of night or break out in a nervous sweat at the idea of holding a sword once more. It was far better to wax bardic over an immortal woman who gave up eternity to be with a mortal man in his limited lifespan. The villagers spoke of undying evil, murderous Uruk-hai and the dark deeds of traitorous men. It was this last that often made me turn my eyes to another and watch as his features paled though he held his silence in thin-lipped bitterness. Some regrets leave wounds too deep to even scar, and memory is a hard taskmaster.

My recollections of spring of the year 3019 are as clear now as they were in my youth. It was a time of sorrow, of fear, of hatred and even joy. My life, which had a run a steady course despite my early wanderings with Udela and my troubled marriage, was irrevocably changed in the bleak days when February yielded to March, and the winds carried the stench of death upon them.

Edoras swelled with a misplaced populace and the people were grim in the face of what seemed to be an inevitable war. The eastern sky grew black with the power of Sauron, tendrils of a living darkness stretching into the west towards Rohan and Gondor. Patrols rode ceaselessly through the gates, many returning with broken men and tack from slaughtered horses. Word and rumor traveled quickly and the kitchens of the Meduseld hummed with bleak news.

"Those filthy orcs have overrun much of the Westfold, pouring out of Isengard like spiders from a newly hatched nest." Elswide's features were twisted with loathing and she wielded her cleaver against the carcass of a chicken with particular savagery.

I sat near her, tending a burn wound on a young eorling who had tried to pilfer a piece of stewmeat from a bubbling cauldron and paid for his thievery with scorched fingers. "'Tis said that Theodred has joined his cavalry with the Westfold infantry to hold the fords."

The cleaver's blade struck the table's surface with a solid thunk and my patient nearly leapt from his seat in fear. I admonished him to keep still and frowned in disapproval at the cook. She paid me no heed.

"Ha! The Second Marshal is as stubborn as his father. "She pointed with the cleaver and the skullery boy reared back, terrified at the image of his annoyed mistress wielding a sharpened blade so close to him. "Mark my words, no good will come of that. Grimbold and Theodred are seasoned leaders but I fear that territory is already lost to the orcs."

I prayed she was wrong. To lose the fords of Isen would open the Westfold like a belly wound and Rohan would suffer greatly. I was no strategist, but I had heard similar mutterings from Swidhelm who had paid visit to Wulfrune's house the previous evening and called me out walk with him along the lower battlements.

It was a strange conversation between us. While I did not flaunt my relationship with Grima Wormtongue, I did not seek to hide it. No laws were broken, no marriages compromised and my social status had not altered despite my additional role as a powerful man's mistress. I knew Swidhelm did not approve, but that disapproval had less to do with a hurt pride and more with a dislike of the man who took me to his bed.

"You could have chosen better, Maeve of Gondor." He spoke in a gruff voice and I smiled at his concern as we walked slowly through the quiet streets.

"Mayhap. In many ways, you are better, Swidhelm." His brows rose and I laughed gently at the hint of masculine preening that revealed itself in his sun-weathered features. "But do we choose, or does Fate choose for us?"

The wind blew strands of his pale hair across his face and he gazed at me with knowing eyes. "You don't strike me as weak, Maeve. Why do you embrace a weak excuse?"

That insight startled me. It seemed Grima was not the only one who saw things within me that I thought hidden. Either I had crossed paths with two very perseptive men, which seemed unlikely, considering the ways of men, or I was far more open with my thoughts and feelings than I realized. Such an idea made me distinctly uncomfortable. I could not; however, deny his observation. Fate played no part in my ties to Grima, save a chance encounter many months ago. I chose him. He was not chosen for me.

"He is..." I spread my hands, briefly at a loss to explain my fascination. "Different. Fascinating."

I did not see the same loathing on Swidhelm's face that I often saw on others' when the counselor's name was mentioned, but there was wariness, a deep-seated uneasiness that mimicked what had always hovered within me when dealing with Wormtongue.

"He is dangerous, Maeve. He plots and manuevers, and there are few who equal his skill in either. I see him in the Hall speaking softly to the king. Something tells me his words are lethal and filled with treachery."

I shivered at his words, for there was within me a recognition that what he said was not simply conjecture but truth. Grima's demeanor towards me altered little when we were alone in his chambers. Never a man to spill his secrets to anyone, he was nontheless more relaxed in my presence. It was in his sleep that he revealed things that left me wondering, wide-eyed beside him in the icy dark. Whispered murmurings of "I will show them all," and "A new king. A new dynasty."

I knew of his obsession with Eowyn. It had not lessened as my bond with him deepened, but I wondered if there was more to it than a man's unrequited affections for a beautiful maiden. Eowyn was more than a woman blessed with fair features and noble bearing. She was of royal blood, and through her many things could be sought and won.

I paused in my strides and Swidhelm stopped as well. The hard muscle of his forearm flexed beneath my touch. "He is not one to speak his thoughts, certainly not to me. If he is dangerous," I raised my hand to halt his interruption, "I do not think such danger is directed at me. But like you, I fear for the king. And Rohan."

Swidhelm stiffened and I watched as the light of battle entered his eyes. "We hold the Westfold for now, but it won't last. Grimbold's infantry and Theodred's cavalry are far too few in number. It would serve Rohan best if they gave up the west-mark and joined a muster."

We continued our walk, speaking more of the troubles along the Isen and Erkenbrand's preparation of Helm's Deep. When we returned to Wulfrune's house, Swidhelm nodded once to the other two women, smiling slightly as Sunniva blushed.

His expression was somber as he turned to me. "Be on your guard, Maeve. Snakes entrance their prey before they strike."

I watched him from the open doorway, troubled by his parting words. They shadowed my thoughts as I made my nightly trek to the Meduseld. My rituals were the same, but when Grima closed the door behind me, he did not wait until I placed the bowl of broth on his table. Instead, he pulled me into his embrace, and his kiss was deep, plundering, as if he sought conquest and found it within my willing arms. His lovemaking that night left its mark on my thighs and arms, and I moved carefully as I dressed and made ready to return home. He was asleep amidst the tangle of furs and linens, the hard lines of his face eased as he slumbered peacefully.

Still, I could not shake the memory of his expression as he rose above me and I clutched his shoulders in readiness to take him. There was desire there and lust. But it was lust for something else, something that was suddenly within fingertip's reach and his eyes burned with the fires of triumph and a gleeful malice. I shuddered in his arms and what physical pleasure he had encited within me bled away for a moment before that sinister expression.

I recalled it again as I finished wrapping the scullery lad's hand in clean bandages and instructed him on how to care for the wound. He fled the kitchens as soon as I assured him I was finished, no doubt eager to be away from Elswide and her cleaver.

I was gathering my herbs and wraps and bantering with cook in an effort to lighten the grim mood between us when the same boy I had just treated ran into the kitchens, breathless and white-faced with fear. "Orcs." He gasped, and a dead hush fell over the kitchens. "They have overrun the West Mark. Theodred is dead." Anguished cries echoed in response to his news, but he continued with even darker reports. "More have crossed the eastern borders from the Emyn Muil. Eomer says they are Saruman's. He's preparing his eored to meet them in battle." He ran out before Elswide could catch him and question him further.

I sat down heavily on the bench and stared up at her. Her eyes glistened with tears and there was a hint of anger in her gaze. "It begins," she said and my stomach knotted with the truth of her statement. Rohan was falling.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Sir Francis Bacon - "Men in Great Place are thrice Servants: Servants of the Sovereign or State; Servants of Fame; and Servants of Business...It is strange desire to seek Power and to lose Liberty."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps –

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	15. A Fatal Conjunction

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ (and Brad Dourif) gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

_Chapter Fifteen – A Fatal Conjunction_

The day that Theodred, once heir to the Rohirric throne, was entombed with his ancestors I took to my bed, lightheaded with a fatigue that refused to diminish despite the rejuvenating tea Sunniva brewed for me. As I lay on my pallet, on the brink of sleep, I could hear the pass of numerous feet as the funeral procession wound through Edoras. The mourners were silent, saving their lamentations for the dirge that would be sung once Theodred was laid to rest and the tomb's entrance closed.

I curled onto my side, listening with a heavy heart as the march passed. Sadness and confusion hung over the town like a heavy mist, dreary and silent. The heir had left no issue, and the royal line would pass to Eomer, the Third Marshal, currently imprisoned within the dank recesses of a storage chamber near the Meduseld kitchens.

Many were stunned by the news that the king not only seemed uncaring of his son's death, but had his nephew imprisoned for that which seemed more brave and loyal than treasonous. I had not witnessed the confrontation between Eomer and Grima, but others had, and they spoke of the anger the son of Eomund had for Grima's sway over the king, the advisor's refusal to accept that battling the orcs who invaded from the east was an attempt to save Rohan from ruin. And there had been threats, snarled warnings of consequence as it became known to Eomer that Wormtongue favored his sister.

The extent of Grima's power made itself obvious when the king ordered guardsmen to lock Eomer in a deserted room for defying his liege in his attempt to halt the raiders from attacking Rohan. But those within the Meduseld or close to its inhabitants knew it was not Theoden's orders, but Grima's, spoken in the dry whsipering tones of a decrepit, wasted creature who could barely hold himself upright on the throne.

I still visited Grima each evening, but the man I had come to know and taken as lover no longer resided within the confines of that cold, sparse room. Never a noble or dignified persona, he had still been fascinating. An enigma made up of conflicting emotions. Cleverness, vulnerability, a dry humor; and with me, a certain affection that revealed moments of a deeper humanity. However, upon learning of Theodred's death and the threats arising from both the East and West Marks, all save the cleverness had evaporated, and even that had a certain tainted, malicious quality to it. What remained was a serpent thinly disguised as a man. It hissed its venom into the king's ears and tracked the comings and goings of a pale and future queen with a predatory gaze.

Despite his fevered machinations, Grima noticed my withdrawal and questioned it. The evening in which we first heard of Theodred's death, I was crouched in front of the counselor's hearth, stoking the fire so as to give more heat to the eternally cold bedchamber. The only things to break the silence was the rustle of ash in the hearth and the scrape of a spoon against a bowl. Grima's voice drifted to me, inquiring but with a knowing tone to it, as if he guessed at my reticence to engage in conversation with him.

"You have said little, Maeve, nor met my eyes once since you arrived. What thoughts plague you that you cannot bring yourself to look at me?"

My nails dug into my palms as I gripped the fire tongs and continued to stoke the coals. There was no chance of hiding my thoughts. Grima was adept at unearthing secrets, his gift of observation serving him well as he climbed the ranks of Rohirric society. I had no doubt he would see the turmoil in my expression, no matter my effort to hide it. So I chose the truth and hoped I did not endanger myself, for the thin, pallid man who breathed gently into my hair at night had suddenly become threatening, and all my instincts screamed a warning to walk lightly now.

I raised my eyes to his and noted the narrowing of his gaze, the stiffening posture that signaled he had indeed seen my suspicions. "You are not saddened by the Second Marshal's death?"

He shrugged lightly, but the tension weighed heavily in the room as I questioned him. "There are many who will mourn Theodred. His spirit shall not miss my condolensces." He paused a moment. "And we were not…close."

I continued down a perilous path, rising to stand and face him fully. "What will happen now that the Westfold has fallen? Rohan will need help from Gondor." I swore I saw a small, malicious smile curve his thin mouth for a moment.

"You see shadows where there are none, Healer. The Westfold is under attack, yes, but it still belongs to Rohan. These raids have occurred for decades, centuries. They are no different from other skirmishes we have had with Dunland."

I gaped at him, stunned by the open and sheer denial of what was blatantly obvious. These were Dunlendings _and _orcs, pouring into the Gap like poison into a stream and over the teeth of the Emyn Muil. Edoras was bloated with refugees from both the west and the east. Erkenbrand prepared the Hornburg for battle, and rumor had it that the lord of Harrowdale readied his eored to ride to the Isen and give aid to Grimbold. These were not the territorial skirmishes that had plagued the westenmet for centuries on end. This was full war, and Grima Wormtongue refused to acknowledge it.

I was near speechless with that realization until I caught a flicker of knowing glittering in his eyes before he masked it behind a guarded expression. He knew the lie of his words and I understood then that he purposefully refuted the facts laid bare before anyone with eyes. The why of it confounded me, though my stomach turned with the idea that he was somehow in league with those who would crush Rohan beneath their heel.

I took a breath to speak again but paused as Grima's eyes narrowed to slits as if he dared me to argue. Fear fluttered in my gut, and I reconsidered. "I should question you no more, Lord Grima."

The fine hairs on my nape rose as he stood, the healing broth I made for him forgotten as he circled around the table and approached me on silent feet. "Indeed, Maeve. You should not."

He pulled the tongs from my numb fingers, tossing them on the grate where they landed with a loud clatter. I could not help but stiffen for a moment as his fingers drifted across my jaw, curving around my throat, pausing briefly before sliding to my shoulder. "You have nothing to fear, Maeve Reod", and he lowered his head to brush his lips lightly over mine. "I protect and hold close what is mine."

I kissed him back, my fear fading but not my suspicions. He _knew_ something, was involved in something, and it reeked of treason. When I rose to dress the next morning, I turned to watch him sleeping amidst the furs and for the first time felt sullied by his touch.

I was plagued by my doubts which grew stronger every passing hour and the very real fatigue that made my muscles feel weighted and my eyes craving sleep. Both Wulfrune and Sunniva voiced their concerns but I waved them away with a smile and words that rang insincere and did nothing to alleviate their concerns. By the time Theodred's body was brought back to Edoras and prepared for burial, I was too exhausted to attend the funeral procession, choosing instead to capture what sleep I could. I drifted off to the high, wailing tones of the women as they sang the dirge, their voices carried on the bitter February wind.

That evening, after Sunniva found her bed, Wulfrune sat across from me at her table and stared at me with solemn eyes. "When were your last menses, Maeve?"

The breath died in my lungs at her question. I should have realized, should have known, but we often deny within ourselves what is obvious to others. Still, I was a healer. I knew the signs. And in the first year of my marriage to Ceolwulf, I had carried a child. The memories of all the symptoms came rushing back in that moment and I frantically counted back to the last time I bled. "Eleven days," I whispered. "I should have begun my menses eleven days ago."

Wulfrune's expression sharpened. "Surely, you took care. You know what herbs can be taken to prevent conception."

I blushed with mortification, feeling very much as a child taken to task for a careless act of stupidity. "No, I didn't."

She rolled her eyes and I knew I was in for a severe admonishment. I held up my hand to ward off her stripping me bare. "I thought I was barren, Wulfrune. I bore a stillborn babe years ago and could never conceive after that." My thoughts reeled at the knowledge that I might well be pregnant. The idea that this child was the offspring of a possible traitor hovered in the background like a dark shadow.

I stared at the older leech. "It could merely be a delay."

She raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Mayhap. Do you truly believe that?" I shook my head. "Then you must look within yourself. You know as well as I the ways to rid yourself of a burden."

My throat tightened at her words. I did know, had administered the purgative to a girl raped by her uncle and watched Udela give it to a Haradan prostitute. Wulfrune watched me with a quiet patience as I rubbed my temples with my fingertips.

"What if this is a blessing, not a burden? I have always wanted a babe."

She sighed heavily and I could hear her thoughts as if she spoke them out loud. A child from the seed of Grima Wormtongue. Another outcast. Born to an unmarried woman in a time of great strife among a harried people. But she held her words back, remaining impartial in her advice. "That is for you to decide, Maeve."

For all that I was bone-weary, I lay awake most of the night, wondering at the vagaries of fate and my own foolishness, of which I seemed to succumb on a repeated basis. I was grateful not to have visited Grima for once. I had sent Sunniva with a message that I was ill and it would be prudent if I remained in Wulfrune's home for the evening. She returned with the reply I expected, and I opened the square of parchment to read.

_No vile broth this evening, leech? A respite then. When you are well enough, return to me, Maeve Reod. The fire in the hearth will be bright, the furs warm._

I refolded the note, tucking it into my blankets and wondered how welcoming those furs would remain should I tell him the peasant woman who warmed his bed may well carry his offspring in her belly. My eyes felt hot and I swallowed hard against the urge to weep. I did not dwell long on the thought, for I knew what his reaction would be. There were enough unpleasant things to disturb my rest without contemplating that one scenario for any period of time.

For all that I wrestled with the decision of whether or not to tell Wormtongue of my possible state, such inner conflicts came to naught for I never gained the chance to speak with him about it. The days following Theodred's burial and Eomer's imprisonment passed swiftly, and the arrival of March brought the hope of a nation and the destruction of a man.

The winds blew hard through Edoras on a fateful day when all that I suspected was confirmed, and those truths brought only despair. I stood with Elswide in the back doorway to the kitchens. The view gave a clear line of sight over the escarpment, and we watched as three riders approached the gates of the town. I could not make out much of the visitors but my vision was better than the cook's and she questioned me concerning what I saw.

"Three men." I told her. "No, wait. Three men and a child, I think."

She frowned and squinted in a futile attempt to see better. "Odd. What of the tack? Can you make out what the horses wear?"

As the riders drew closer, things became clearer and I revised my first impressions. "Those are eorling horses, but not eorling men." I stared harder, surprised. "One, an old man, rides a white mearas."

Elswide drew in hard breath and nearly toppled from the stoop on which we stood to get a closer look. "Gandalf Greyhame."

I stared at her in confusion. She knew this man? I had not heard of him, though I was fascinated by the respectful, awed tone of her voice. Clearly, she admired him, whoever he was.

She scowled at my confusion and pursed her lips in thought. "You are of Gondor and may know him by a different name. He is of a kind like the wizard of Isengard. Born ancient, with the power of great magic in his hands. This one has ever been a friend to Rohan, though Rohan has not been so to him of late."

A sorcerer, like Saruman of Isengard. And suddenly I recalled the tales of my youth before I apprenticed with Udela and took up her wandering ways. "Mithrandir," I murmured, as awed now as Elswide. "We call him Mithrandir."

We watched as they rode closer, finally disappearing from our view as they made their way to Edoras' gate. Elswide had hardly closed the door and returned to her duties when animated whispers filled the kitchen. As with everyone else, I was caught up in the curiosity and excitement of the moment, truly feeling life swirl again within the chamber and chase away the gloom that had lain heavily on the Meduseld since Theodred's death.

Elswide said nothing as her underlings abandoned roasting boars and cauldrons of stew on the fires to make their way into the corridors that led to the Golden Hall. All wanted to know the purpose of Mithrandir's visit to Theoden and learn of those grey-hooded folk who accompanied him.

I made to follow but hesitated, turning to Elswide where she stood by the largest hearth. The fires could not be left unattended for even a moment, and while I was disappointed at not witnessing the events in the Hall, I felt bound by my friendship to the cook to stay and help.

She winked at me and made a shooing motion with her hands. "Get on with you girl and find out what happens. Watch everything and come back to me with news." She smiled and I smiled back in thanks before walking swiftly out of the kitchens to catch up with the others.

The doorways leading into the Hall were blocked by a solid wall of servants eager for information, but I was persistent and soon managed to carve out a place for myself in the crush of bodies. From my vantage point I could see Mithrandir, as regal and stately in his white robes as any High King who ever sat upon the throne of Gondor in the ancient days. His companions were equally fascinating. A ranger of the North clad in leather and a day's layer of dirt, he wore a mantle of grace upon his broad shoulders. Beside him, the most beautiful being I ever beheld. A man and yet not a man, with features so finely sculpted as to be almost womanish in their refinement. His antithesis stood between him and the Dunedain ranger, a dwarf I mistakenly thought a rotund child when I first sighted them riding to Edoras.

Such strange company to be found together in any place, and especially in the heart of the Riddermark. I wondered what bound them to each other and what had brought them here. I turned my eyes to Theoden, old and enfeebled on his throne. He stared at the wizard with unfriendly eyes and I shuddered at the glimpse of hatred that glittered in a gaze now bright and clear with malevolence. Still, it was the sight of Grima, crouched at his liege's feet, that turned my stomach most. His pinched features were nearly corpse-white with terror, and he hunched and scuttled warily toward the visitors.

Like Theoden, his expression was one of malice and hate, but it lacked the threatening power that hovered behind the king's gaze. This was the fear of entrapment, of exposure and the peril of revealing sins long hidden in a cloaking darkness. His movements reminded me of a rat, forced into a corner with no escape, and only death awaiting it. I almost turned away, skin beginning to crawl with the knowledge of what I had lain with these past weeks, but I stayed and watched and listened as Gandalf Greymantle skewered my erstwhile lover with his own lies and freed a monarch from the shackles of slavery.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Joseph Conrad - "Who knows what true loneliness is—not the conventional word, but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion. Now and then a fatal conjunction of events may lift the veil for an instant. For an instant only. No human being could bear a steady view of moral solitude without going mad."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – , 6)The Reading Room – , 7) The Haradrim – , 8) The Swan – , 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – , 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – , 12) The Grima Dictionary – , 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – , 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – , 15) TolkienWiki Community – , 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – , 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – , 18) Map of Middle Earth – , 19) Tolkien Maps –

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	16. Stoops to Folly

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

_**Chapter Sixteen – Stoops to Folly**_

Mithrandir, of whom legends were crafted and stories told, shone pure and potent in the dimness of the Hall. Power radiated from him in near visible streams, and those of us who watched him wield his magic stared, awe-struck.

The creature whom I now looked on as an abomination of the king, cackled with spiteful glee, his claw-like hands gripping the arms of the throne until the sharp knuckles threatened to split the parchment skin stretched over them. Whatever thing writhed beneath the commands of the wizard fought its summoning, twisting brittle bones, and the healer within me cringed at the knowledge of what damage such evil was inflicting upon Theoden Ednew's frail body.

It was over in moments. Mithrandir's voice and what was surely the death convulsions of a brutalized old man, were the only things to echo and move in the hall, and we watched, frozen like prey, as the king suddenly slumped forward, a broken travesty of a man. A thin, anguished moan, cut abruptly shut short, sounded in the waiting silence. Eowyn rushed toward her uncle, only to be pulled back by the ranger. It seemed that Theoden was dead, ultimately destroyed by the confrontation between two powers, one that would use him and one that would save him.

There was weeping behind me and a growing restlessness that began to surge through the crowd, a burgeoning anger which rose and settled again on the pathetic being who groveled at the foot of his sire's throne, watching all of his dreams and desires turned to ash before his eyes. I could not help the small, spiteful smile that curved my lips or the tears that blurred my vision as I stared at Grima trapped on his back beneath the dwarf's boot like some dung-eating insect.

The sudden exclamations of amazement and joy turned my attention back to the king, and I joined their chorus as the sickly shell of a once proud man transformed before our eyes. I once again recalled the summer of my youth and my first sight of the king of the Rohirrim with his proud bearing and the sun shining on his fair hair. The sense of growing wonder in his eyes, the awakening after a long, brutal sleep, brought more cries of delight, and Eowyn, unhindered this time, walked to the throne and drew her uncle's hand to her face.

I glanced again at Grima, taking malicious pleasure from the pain and terror twisting his gaunt features. He had cause to be frightened, for his life was measured by hours now instead of days. Kings made slaves were not forgiving when freed of their bonds, and Theoden was no exception. The light of elation in his clear blue eyes turned hot, focusing with a singular rage on his counselor.

What happened next has remained stained in my memory, even after these many years. I had never before seen someone reduced to such a pathetic, scuttling excuse of a man – or so I thought. It would be later that I came to realize Grima would seek and find new depths of humiliation, but at that moment he reminded me of nothing more than a diseased and broken wharf whore. The difference was I would have pitied the whore and offered succor.

As much I wished to do so, I forced myself not to shut my eyes but to bear witness to Theoden's rightful anger as he named Grima traitor and minion to Saruman of Isengard. The lords of the great houses shifted restlessly in place, their hands dropping to their sword pommels, waiting for a command to dispatch the advisor so many had come to detest. The servants around me muttered amongst themselves, dark things that spoke of hatred and murder. I felt as they did, more so even for I carried the taint of Wormtongue's touch on my skin, the essence of his life in my belly, and for a brief moment I felt so defiled that I wished nothing more than to purge the thing that rested below my ribs, rid my body of it in a rush of loathing and black blood.

I felt the sudden urge to vomit and turned to shove my way through the milling crowd. My breathing sounded loud in my ears as I traversed the cool empty corridors back to the kitchens. Elswide's eyes widened as I burst into the hot room, and surely I must have looked as maddened as I felt, for she stepped back a moment in fear as I strode past her.

"Maeve, what happened?" Her voice, usually so strong and clear, warbled with uncertainty, and I ignored her question in favor of searching the butchering tables. I found a boning knife, sharp and gleaming in the hearth light. I took it in hand and strode to the back door that led to steps which meandered to a lower courtyard. It was a path to the stables, and all my instincts told me that if Grima was allowed to live, he would find his way there for a horse and a means of leaving Edoras.

"What are you doing?" Elswide no longer sounded unsure, and her tone was as much of command as of question.

I paused and turned to face her. The rage burned hot and bright within me, the only clean thing that fed some small measure of redemption to my spirit, for I wanted nothing more than to step outside my own skin and walk away into the sacred west. The knife felt heavy in my palm.

We stared at each other for a moment, friend to friend, and I gave her my honesty. "I don't know," I whispered. "I don't know."

"Maeve!"

I ignored her calls after that and sped out the door, taking the steps leading to the courtyard two at a time. The ceaseless wind dried my eyes of any tears though my chest felt weighted with them, and my stomach continued to roil with nausea. The entry to the stables was deserted, and I wondered at the silence, at least until I heard the muted sound of voices raised in anger and entreaty. They were outside on the steps of the Meduseld, king and counselor, retainers and sorcerer. I could not discern their words but there was no mistaking the beseeching tones of Grima's voice, tones that swiftly changed to a hissing, spitting fury.

I heard no more as I entered the shadowed warmth of the stables with their comforting smells of hay and horse, leather and spring sunlight. Cynwise whickered a greeting, but I ignored her in favor of searching out Grima's horse, a black with intelligent eyes and a temperamental nature, much like his master. I didn't dare enter the stall for fear of being kicked or bitten, but waited next to it, the boning knife hidden within the folds of my skirts. It felt slippery in my grip, heavier than its size warranted, and I tucked it deeper into the creases.

It was only a matter of moments before the doors to the stable creaked open, and a small swirl of straw spun upward as the wind blew in with a soft moan. I cannot say why I knew Grima would come. It was simply a knowing, an absolute belief that he would appear here after his confrontation with Theoden.

He burst through the open doors in a cloud of dust, the heavy lota flapping around his ankles as he strode down the length of the stables toward his horse's stall. I stood frozen in place, my insides twisting into knots as he drew closer. A smear of scarlet blood stained the corner of his mouth, and he dabbed it with a silk cloth. I could see raw scrapes on his knuckles and the backs of his hands as if he had been dragged on his back by his heels across the stone loggia of the Meduseld. My voice sounded unnaturally loud and shrill in the hush.

"Grima."

That single word brought Wormtongue up short. He jerked to a standstill, eyes wide with shock that someone awaited him and called his name. He caught sight of me standing next to the stall gate, and for just a moment his thin shoulders slumped in defeat, as if I brought home to him all that had suddenly slipped through his fingers. Had he not been standing so close, I might have imagined it as he went rigid again and stared at me with a mocking half-smile.

"Healer of Gondor." His address slid off his tongue in a dry murmur, as if it was a day like any other, and he ruled the lands of the horse lords from the feet of its dying king. "Come to wish me fair journey?" There was scorn and despair in those sly eyes, despite the casual nature of his question.

"Why?" I whispered. "You held an honored place. The king looked to you for wisdom. The retainers once respected your words. Hama said you were a man both judicious and clever." I could hear the bitterness in my voice. "Yet it wasn't enough. You sold us, like so much sour grain, to a sorcerer who would destroy us all. Why? Are you not Rohirrim?"

Wormtongue stared at me for a moment, his pinched features growing uglier with an expression of contempt. "What do you, a peasant outlander, know what it is to be Rohirrim or to wield a measure of power over a people?"

I flinched at his words but refused to answer as he turned away to open his horse's stall. I had brought children into the world, eased the aches and pains of old bones and placed a knife into the sure hand of a warrior slowly bleeding away from a gut wound. There is power in life and death, and I had wielded it in some small way. The true difference between Wormtongue and me was that I was not consumed by it.

He took my silence as an invitation to elaborate, and his voice became breathless as he saddled and bridled the black in preparation to leave. "I ruled beneath the whim of the king, at the foot of his throne." His eyes were narrowed as he turned his head and gazed at me. "A servant dressed in silks and furs is no greater than the one in plain boiled wool. He is simply dressed better."

The horse grunted as he tightened the girth strap, shifting to one side so that he briefly pinned the counselor against the wall of the stall. Grima shoved the animal away with a muttered oath and dusted off his lota. He looked more sallow in the stables' muted light, and I wondered if the beauty I had seen beneath the sickly features and thin frame had been nothing more than a mirage, having no more substance than the visions that tricked the eye in the simmering heat of a midday summer sun. It seemed ironic and almost laughable that I had once been fooled by a fair face and form that hid a corrupt character, and here I stood again facing a man as flawed on the inside as he was on the surface.

Wormtongue eased out of the stall and leaned on the door, watching me with a hooded stare. "You condemn me with your eyes, healer." He took a step toward me, halting as I stepped back. His faint smile was bitter and caused the wound on his mouth to bleed again. He dabbed it with the kerchief. "I had a chance to govern from the seat of the throne, not from its feet. I would have founded a dynasty on Eoywn and raised kings to rule Rohan and possibly Gondor." His eyes gleamed with avarice. "What man would turn away from so golden an opportunity?"

I don't know what made me speak as I did, for surely I put my life in jeopardy by doing so, but the anger and the sense of betrayal bubbled up from the depths of my protesting stomach, and I wished nothing more than to inflict the same pain I felt. "You are no man."

He was upon me before I could even gasp with fright, clutching my arms with vicious fingers, his sharp face pale and drawn with rage. I twisted in his grip, freeing myself enough to bring up the knife I held in a shining arc. For all that Grima seemed frail and weak, he was deadly fast in countering my attack, and there was strength aplenty in the hand that wrapped around my wrist and crushed until I released the blade so that it fell in the straw at our feet.

We breathed together, short, rapid pants that found a rhythm to match each other. He pulled me close, wrapping one arm around my waist while the other forced my hand back down to my side. I could see the split skin of his wound, the bubble of blood that oozed from it. I shuddered in his embrace as his voice, turned bardic and poisonous, fluttered along my neck.

"I would have killed Eomer and taken his fair sister each night until I got sons off of her. I would have kept you as my leman, you with your beautiful, life-giving hands and the sun in your hair." He kissed my throat, and I could not suppress the sob that escaped my mouth for even then, grieving and angry with the knowledge of his colossal deceit, I still wished him here, wished him mine, wished him well. I remained stiff as he licked a stray tear from my jaw.

"It would have been a good life, Maeve Reod. You would have found your place within the Meduseld."

"No," I whispered, and strands of his dark hair brushed my face in a delicate caress. "It would have been a life of misery, for Eowyn would never bow to you. What children you might have sired off her would never be birthed from her womb. She would come to me so that I may give her that which would keep her childless, and you would grow old, with no sons, no daughters, no dynasty, only a kingdom overrun by orcs and littered with the bones of noble men." I did not speak of the child I suspected I carried.

He froze at my words, his lips pressing against my neck, and I wondered if he would bite me in vengeance, rip through the skin to the vein until my blood washed both of us. We remained that way for what seemed like hours, silent and still, as I continued to weep and feel him breathe against me. Soon his hands fell away, and he stepped back. His face was closed, guarded, but I could see a terrible sadness lingering within the depths of his eyes. That expression touched me as none of his words had, and I sought to mend the damage of my previous insult.

"I found you beautiful, once." I said softly.

The stark look eased a fraction and Grima almost smiled. "I find you beautiful, still, Maeve Reod."

He spun on his heel and walked away, opening the stall door to lead his horse out onto the main run of the stable. Despite his darkness and scholarly ways, there was no doubting he was Rohirrim. He swung into the saddle with a fluid grace, sitting his mount with ease and familiarity. He stared down at me for a moment before shifting his gaze to the knife at my feet.

"Would you have taken my life had I not stopped you?"

It was a fair question, and one I found near impossible to answer. "I don't know. You deserve death for what you've done, but mayhap not by my hand. A king showed you mercy. Why shouldn't I?"

He coaxed the black to walk forward until it stood next to me. I could see the intricate detail of stitchery in his boot, his thin leg encased in black silk. He leaned down from the saddle and took one of my braids into his hand. This time there was no mockery in his expression, only an earnest concern. "Leave Rohan, Maeve. Avoid Gondor and travel south. You are familiar with the Haradrim. They will accept you."

I shook my head. "This is my home. I won't abandon it as you have."

He dropped the braid and straightened again. "Then you will die for your foolishness." I stepped away as he turned the horse toward the door and looked over his shoulder. "Consider my words, Maeve. They are spoken with sincerity and the wisdom others have assigned to me."

I raised a hand in farewell. "I cannot wish you well, Grima Wormtongue."

He smiled his humorless smile. "Then wish me forgotten, healer."

The horse bolted forward as Grima dug his heels into its sides, and the two were soon through the open doors of the stable, galloping through the lower levels of Edoras toward the vast plains. I had no idea where they raced to, but I suspected that the servant sought his true master in the black spire of Orthanc.

I bent to retrieve the knife, mocking myself for my noble intentions and cowardly actions. I should have killed him. There were other chances, but I was weak and stupid, a woman blinded by emotion and poor judgement that only seemed to worsen with age.

I sought out Cynwise's stall, finding some small joy in her obvious happiness at seeing me. She nuzzled my hair with her soft mouth, and I stroked the bridge of her nose. I felt too broken inside to leave the stables and mingle. I knew the crowds of people would rejoice in Theoden's return to health and vilify Wormtongue's traitorous act.

The straw on the stall floor acted as a cushion as I sat down in an untouched spot and leaned back against the wall. Cynwise gave a short snort, curious at my actions, but soon returned to her feed bucket, at ease with my presence. I set the knife down next to me and wrapped my arms around my knees, resting my head on them. This time, when the tears came, they flowed like the Isen before it was choked off by Saruman's scheming.

I sobbed in self-pity and self-loathing, and for those who would soon die and lose loved ones in battles surely to come. I would not forget Grima Wormtongue. He had left something of himself in my keeping. I had yet to come to terms with its existence or if I would allow it to live beyond the reality of my suspicions. Come what may; however, the king's traitor would remain with me in some fashion. It is impossible to forget those you love.

I cried until there was nothing left within me save a gratitude that I had been allowed my grief in solitude. My melancholy remained, and again I found myself wishing for the solace of a woman long buried. "Forgive me, Udela." I whispered into the silence.

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Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Oliver Goldsmith - "When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?"

A/N – My sincerest thanks to those who have read and reviewed. My apologies for the delay in updating. Real life has a way of creating such delays. I assure any who might be concerned that this fiction WILL BE COMPLETED. It may just take a little longer than I anticipated.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – 6)The Reading Room – 7) The Haradrim – harad. 8) The Swan – 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – morrowdim. 10) Suite 101 – 11) Questia – 12) The Grima Dictionary – 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – 15) TolkienWiki Community – 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – www32. 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – 18) Map of Middle Earth – 19) Tolkien Maps – The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – www.dicksonc. 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – home.insight. 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	17. Fall Seven Times

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

**Chapter Seventeen – Fall Seven Times**

Rohan was my dead husband's country, and though I had lived on its open plains for several years, married one of its sons and buried a stillborn babe beneath its tall grasses, it wasn't mine. The Rohirrim had accepted me into their midst, but both they and I always knew I wasn't one of them.

Such an acknowledgement had never struck so hard than in the days following Wormtongue's banishment. The townspeople who knew me only as the foreign healer now watched me askance, their expressions suspicious, sometimes hostile. I had never boasted of my position as Wormtongue's lover. I remain uncertain if such a thing is even worthy of boasting. Nor had I ever sought to hide such a fact. As such, word had spread that Grima had taken me as his woman for a short time. Such associations breed their own judgements, and I was marked, not only by my outlander status, but by the knowledge that I had often lain with Rohan's most reviled traitor. That I expected such a reaction made it no less difficult to bear.

Still, it wasn't the rebuffs and sidelong glances of strangers that cut so deep. Those who knew me from our destroyed village still conversed with me, inquiring of my health or asking questions for a wounded friend or sick child. Their eyes held sympathy, an emotion born of a remembered history when I was once wife to a man who bartered me to pay a debt. I didn't know if such compassion sprang from the common ground of human grief, or if it was merely pity that I had made the same foolish mistake twice. I dared not ask. To do so would have been a disservice to long held friendships. And I was afraid. Shame is a burdensome thing.

As it was, little time was spent mulling over Wormtongue's betrayal and exile, and most forgot his taint upon me. War loomed over Rohan, the scent of her invaders hanging foul in the air. In the short time I had spent in the stables, Edoras, long shrouded in despair, had sprung to life. There had been council between Rohan's ruler, his thanes and the odd group of elf and dwarf, ranger and wizard. Those of us not privy to the decisions of kings and overlords never knew the exact words spoken in that meeting, but whatever they were, they carried a despearte message. Ride to meet Saruman's army. Retreat to Dunharrow.

People hurried through the streets, grim-faced but purposeful, many carrying armor or leading horses draped in battle gear. The king, now redeemed and brought back to health by the white wizard's magic, gathered his men to him. Eomer, freed from his imprisonment, took his place as first commander, and men flocked to him and the king, awaiting orders

All able eorlings of fighting age were to ride out from Edoras that afternoon, led by Theoden. They would engage Saruman at the Isen and relieve Erkenbrand and his troops. The town would be emptied. Women and children, the old and crippled were to find safe haven at the fortified clifftop above Harrowdale.

I joined Wulfrune and Sunniva in gathering our meager belongings. My initiate and I had little more than the clothes on our back and my mare Cynwise. Wulfrune's possessions were more extensive, but she packed only those foodstuffs to hold us for immediate days, as well as precious herbs and surgery knives. Between the three of us, it was a light load, and I shouldered my burden with ease.

I instructed Sunniva to meet us at the stables and saddle Cynwise. She nodded and was soon lost in the crowd of people winding their way toward the lower gates. Wulfrune, as strong and lively as her sister, seemed to age before my eyes as she stared at her home. A humble abode made of wood, wattle and daub, it resembled every other peasant dwelling in Edoras, yet I understood the look in her eyes, the knowledge that it was as grand to her as the Meduseld and far more dear.

"I came here as a new bride. Ælle built it for us with his father's help." She turned to me with a teary smile. "He was very proud of it, as was I." I touched her shoulder, squeezing as she placed her hand over mine. "It will be hard to leave."

"It's only for a short time, Wulfrune. You'll return soon enough."

She asked the question I hoped she wouldn't. "Aye, but will it still be here? Or will all of Edoras be reduced to nothing more than orc ruin?"

I had no answer for her, for the truth was that a dire fate may well await the capital of Rohan. Timber and thatch could be replaced, buildings rebuilt. But the spirit of a home well-loved would be lost. Wulfrune nodded once at my silence, as if I had answered her. She sniffed once, straightened her shoulders and turned her back on the house. "Well, come on then. We've a good walk ahead of us and no time to be standing here in idle conversation."

I followed her through the streets, their silence growing eerie as they cleared of folk. We met up with Elswide near the stables. She stood next to a small cart piled high with kitchen wares, hands fisted on her generous hips in obvious indignation. Apparently, Hama's command to travel light had no bearing on her. The sight of her made me smile for she bristled with anger, staring at the stubborn pony, tied in his traces and steadfastly refusing to budge. His ears laid back in warning when she struck him with the flat of her hand on his hindquarters.

"Useless animal! I should have traded you to that filthy rags merchant when he asked."

Wulfrune set her bags down and marched to the wagon. "He's never much liked you ."

Elswide snorted. "I've never much liked him. Too small for breeding, too small for riding and too lazy to pull a cart." She threw up her hands in disgust. "You try. He's already tried to bite and kick me at least twice. I'm a breath away from butchering him for supper."

She skirted around the pony, who tried to nip her as she passed, and came to stand next to me. Her disgruntled expression changed as she drew closer, replaced by a caring urgency that somehow reminded me of Udela just before she admonished me for some misbehavior.

"Are you well? I saw him ride off toward Isengard." She patted my arms, waist and hips. "No injury? No pain? He didn't hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No. What wounds he left bear no visible marks."

Her smile was both amused and melancholy. "There's never been a woman born who hasn't carried the scars of a man's ambitions, and you gave yourself to one consumed by them."

I frowned, stung by the last part of her statement. I knew the flaws of my judgement concerning Grima, but I wasn't yet ready to hear them confirmed by others, even Elswide whom I liked and respected. She must have sensed my growing anger, for she took my hand and leaned close.

"I've served the Meduseld for years, Maeve, watched Theoden age, remembered the first days that Eomer and Eowyn came to live with him as children. And I knew Grima then." I stilled at her words. "He was never a handsome lad, always sickly and thin, but he had a quick mind and a ready wit. The thanes respected him, and the king trusted his words because they were wise and sensible. Rulers need good advisors as much as they need brave soldiers, and Wormtongue fulfilled that role."

She sighed, lowering her head for a moment. "He wasn't always so craven and foul, Maeve. Don't chastise yourself for seeing something both he and all of us had long forgotten about him."

My vision blurred with tears, and I took a short breath to push them back. "He deserves death, Elswide."

She nodded. "Aye, he does, and he'll find it. He rides to Isengard, to the company of Orcs and a corrupt wizard. What is the worse punishment? To war beside Theoden or serve as thrall to Saruman?"

Her words eased my heart, and I squeezed her fingers in gratitude. "You are a good friend to me. And I am a self-pitying wretch."

Her laughter rang loud, causing some passersby to pause and stare. "Aye, you are, girl, and I grow tired of your misery. Now straighten your back and walk with us." She suddenly narrowed her eyes. "Where's my knife you took from the kitchens?"

I gasped, remembering my weeping spell in Cynwise's stall. "I left it in the stables." I backed away, alarmed when Elswide's features flushed and her mouth thinned. "Forgive me. I know where it is."

I dropped my own satchel next to Wulfrune's and ran for the stables, anxious to get away from what surely promised to be the tongue lashing of the age. I could only blame my carelessness on my meeting with Grima, and hoped someone else hadn't been in Cynwise's stall and discovered a useful item to add to his possessions.

The stable yard teemed with men and horses preparing to ride with Theoden. The damp ground had been churned into a sucking mud pit, and I sank to my ankles in the mire as I wove through the mayhem to reach the stable doors. I passed Sunniva as she led Cynwise out and shouted to her.

"Sunniva, here!"

She saw me and made her way to me, leading my mare behind her. "Where's Wulfrune?"

Cynwise stretched her head over Sunniva's shoulder to beg a pat on the nose from me. "With her sister. Elswide's pony refuses to pull her cart. Wulfrune's trying to coax him."

Sunniva rolled her eyes. "They'll never do it without a bit of honey." I stared at her, surprised. She saw my expression and smiled. "Remember when I brought a basket of Elswide's honey cakes home to Wulfrune?" I nodded. "That daft pony followed me halfway through Edoras, lured by the scent. I had to lead him back to his pen behind the kitchens and tie him. Don't tell because Elswide will have my head, but I gave him two of the cakes."

I began to laugh. "No doubt Elswide packed a few of those cakes, along with everything else, in that cart. She won't be happy about it, but if she wants that pony to move, she'll have to part with a few." I gave Cynwise a quick stroke on her nose. "You'll find them near the second gate. I'll meet with you at the first gate. I've forgotten something in the stall. And tell Wulfrune she's to ride the mare."

I turned to continue my way to the stables but halted when Sunniva called out. "Maeve, she's too proud. She'll refuse."

"Convince her. It's either sore feet or a sore backside, and she's been favoring her right leg. Tell her we both have ailments the other can see."

Sunniva's brows rose at my cryptic remark, but she shrugged and continued to pull Cynwise through the stable yard.

Inside the stables it was quiet, deserted. I breathed a relieved sigh when a quick search through the straw in Cynwise's stall uncovered Elswide's boning knife. Pleased that I wouldn't have to suffer a more severe rebuke from her, I backed out of the stable and into something hard and solid.

The shock of it made me gasp, but I had enough presence of mind to keep the knife firmly at my side so as not to stab some poor innocent. I was doubly grateful for keeping my wits when I discovered Swidhelm behind me. Helmeted and armored, he stood tall and handsome in the stables' dusty half-light.

"You're a fine sight to this woman's eyes, son of Hunwald," I said. It was neither an empty compliment nor shallow flirtation that I spoke. He was the epitome of all the fireside tales told in Gondor of Rohan's fair and noble horse lords. And he would soon ride to face an army of abominations. I don't know if the Valar listen to the small, trivial prayers of men, but at that moment I prayed this man would return to his people unharmed.

He stared at me for long moments, saying nothing, and his blue eyes were shadowed behind the protective face shield of his helm. I could feel my face heat in embarrassment. He knew of my tie to Wormtongue, and though he worried and bid me to remain cautious, he had never shunned me. I hoped he wouldn't do so now.

"Maeve of Gondor," and his voice was quiet and deep in the stables. "I would have something from you. A token of faith and good will."

I knew what he would ask of me. I was no virgin maid to be confused by those things my body recognized. A part of me considered refusing, for I didn't wish to lead him into believing I felt something other than an abiding friendship. But a greater part argued to grant his request. He honored me with it, for he was a fine and decent man, one who deserved a woman of good character who could love him with all of her being. That woman wasn't me, but I could honestly offer what he asked – faith, good will and a desperate wish to see him alive again.

I didn't wait for him to expound but stood on tiptoe and leaned into him, placing my free hand on his shoulder. His breastplate pressed into my chest, the creak and snap of mail hauberk and leather rubbing together sounding loud in my ears as I tilted my head and touched his lips with mine.

He lifted me clear of the floor, kissing me back with a fervor that took me by surprise. He tasted of mead and the first fruits of summer. There was power in his touch, an awareness on my part of great physical strength and an equally strong will that tempered it with gentleness.

I responded to him with more enthusiasm than I should have. I cannot deny he stirred within me a longing to lie in the straw with him and bask in the knowledge that when he looked at me, he saw me, not a shield maiden of royal blood. And I was heartsick at Grima's leaving, his betrayal and abandonment of all that made a man or woman honorable. Were I to give in to those momentary longings, I would be no better than Wormtongue. To see his face as I took Swidhelm between my thighs would be wrong, a discredit to the horse lord who had only ever shown me kindness, admiration and affection.

That thought, and the realization that only hours earlier I'd stood in this same place, in much the same way with Grima, worked as a bucket of melted snow tossed on my head, and I pulled away, mouth still tingling from the sweet taste of Swidhelm's kiss.

I twisted in his arms until he set me down and stepped back. Again I wondered, as I stared into his light eyes, why I couldn't have loved him instead. He was, by every measure, a better man than Grima ever was or could ever be. We watched each other, both breathing hard, until he broke the silence between us.

"You now know the way of my affections. Will you consider me, Maeve of Gondor?"

It would have been so easy to say yes. And so safe, especially now when war loomed, and I was a widow carrying the bastard get of a man hated by an entire country. But Udela's teachings ran strong in my spirit, defined much of who I was.

"Make your own way, Maeve," she had said. "You'll make your mistakes and crawl on your belly for them. But you stand up again and do it on your own strength. It is one thing to ask for help, another to make someone else pay for your folly."

Safe was not always right.

I answered him, but not in a way he hoped. "I will be at Dunharrow, hoping and praying that you remain hale and return to us. Rohan needs such men as you, Swidhelm."

He stiffened for a moment, his eyes turning cooler in acknowledgement of my unwillingness to give him the answer he wanted. A rueful smile soon followed. "You are a stubborn woman, Maeve."

The image of Elswide and her recalcitrant pony flashed in my mind, and I laughed gently. "And you are a brave and patient man, horse lord." I lost my smile, reaching out to trail my fingertips across the back of his hand. "Stay alive, Swidhelm. "

He curled his fingers around mine and squeezed. "It will take more than an army of orcs to bring me low, woman. The Rohirrim are a strong folk, as you well know."

I took comfort in his boasting and wished him well again as he rode Immin out of the stables to join the eored He had offered to have me ride with him to the gates, but considering the looks and stares I'd received most of the day from the citizens of Edoras, I thought it best to walk and meet my companions among those who would follow Eowyn to Dunharrow.

I caught up with the three women just as they exited the last gate. I smothered a laugh at the sight of Elswide breaking off small pieces of honey bread to feed the pony as he walked next her, pulling the cart with no protests.  
Sunniva followed behind, leading Cynwise as Wulfrune swayed in the saddle, her broad features stiff with disapproval. I walked up next to her, reaching out to pat Cynwise on the withers.

"You see too much," she snapped, letting me know she resented my observation of her stiff leg.

"So do you," I snapped back, and watched as her gaze dropped to my still flat belly.

We moved with the procession of townsfolk and soldiers out of Edoras, finally pausing once we descended the slope and stood on the flat grasslands. As one, the crowd of Rohirrim turned back to stare at the town and the Meduseld silhouetted in the bright haze of afternoon sunlight. There was sniffling and weeping, much clearing of throats and the restless beat of horse hooves as they shifted their weight beneath their riders. It was a poignant moment, and I believe even now that we were of one mind. Edoras, the heart of Rohan, stood empty of its people, the soul of Rohan. It was a moment frozen in time, one in which each person within that crowd stared hard at his home, branding it forever in his or her memory in case it was no longer there in a much darker future.

Such quiet reverence was broken by Eomer's voice shouting out commands to prepare and ride. Goodbyes had been said earlier within the city walls, but it didn't stop the cries of good luck and prayers from frightened mothers, wives and children as their kin rode to battle. I didn't catch sight of Swidhelm among the great number of men, but joined my voice to those others.

Like them, I watched as the eored headed to Isengard, following the path of the lone rider who had sold their nation for the chance to rule from a puppet throne and breed children from an enslaved queen. I loved him. I hated him. I hoped he met his death at orcish hands. I wanted him back. And one sudden, clear desire struck me with a force to nearly drive the breath from me, a desire that burned my previous doubts to ash. I wanted this child.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a Japanese proverb - "Fall seven times. Stand up eight."

Many thanks for your reviews and your patience as I work to complete this fan fiction.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics Site -http/ 6) The Reading Room - http/ 7) The Haradrim - http/harad. 8) The Swan - http/ 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth - http/morrowdim. 10) Suite 101 - http/ Suite 101 - http/ 12) Suite 101 - http/ 13) Questia - http/ 14) The Grima Dictionary - http/ 15) The Undefinable Shadowland - http/ 16) The Lexicon of Rohan -http/ (17) TolkienWiki Community - http/ 18) Languages of Middle/Lesson Two: http/www32. 19) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English): http/ 20) Map of Middle Earth - http/ 21) Tolkien Maps - http/ 22) The Undefinable Shadowland - http/ 22) A Short History of the term "Farrier" http/ 23) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College: Significance of the Stirrup - http/www.dicksonc. 24) The Legacy of the Horse – http/ 25) The Rider: Technique and Tack - http/ 26) The Cavalry of the Mark - http/ 27) Rohan Stables - http/ 28) History of Rohan - http/ 28) The Battles of the Fords of Isen - http/larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 29) Herd Behavior - http/ 29) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel - http/home.insight. 30) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons - http/ 31) The Stirrup Controversy - http/ 32) The Dark Ages 500-1000 AD, Warfare in the Balkans - http/members. 33) Medieval Cavalry - http/ 34) Cavalry - http/ 35) Warfare's Slow Evolution - http/ 36) Medieval Seige Warfare, A Reconnaissance - http/ 37) War Tactics – Cavalry - 38) Handbook of Byzantine Military Land Forces - http/www.1jma.dk/articles/1jmaarticlesbyzantine.htm 39) LotR Timeline - http/ 40) Arms and Armor in JRR Tolkien's Middlearth - http/ 41)http/  
42) http/dan.tobias.name/frivolity/archaic-grammar.html  
43) http/


	18. The Grave Soul

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

_Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment._

_This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady._

**Chapter Eighteen – The Grave Soul**

I have come to understand that war is often a series of mistakes and unforeseen events. The greatest generals find their most meticulous strategies blown to the wind by mere happenstance, and the course of history changes due to the confusion of the moment. Our flight from Edoras to Dunharrow culminated in anxious waiting, made sharper by the arrival of a nearly dead messenger from the Fords of Isen.

Grimbold's troops had suffered a defeat but not without inflicting a good deal of damage on Saruman's armies. I wasn't privy to the conversation between messenger and commanders, but such words fly on eagles' wings and soon most of us had heard of the seemingly confusing plans. Erkenbrand, once at Helm's Deep, was riding to Grimbold's aid. The king, at first leading his eored to the fords, chose to turn to the Hornburg instead and make a stand there against the orc armies marching towards it. I am unfamiliar with the movements of battle, only the results of their aftermath, but it seemed to me as if everyone was racing throughout Rohan trying to help each other and yet helping no one.

I kept such thoughts to myself for they sprang from fear and desperation and held no knowledge of the ways of warriors and kings. Instead, I helped Wulfrune and Elswide set up camp among the sea of Rohirrim taking shelter at Dunharrow. Below us, Harrowdale stretched like a green ribbon through the White Mountains, and above us the Starkhorn rose, a snow-bound sentinel that had watched others take their rest at this ancient refuge.

We were tired, aching from our climb up the Stair of the Hold with its endless switchbacks, but such a hard journey had its rewards. We were well defended, and the Firienfeld was fertile and expansive, offering space for the many Rohirrim and good grazing for the horses. Wulfrune and Elswide set up camp as Sunniva and I tended the horse and pony and unloaded Elswide's cart. I worked in silence, lost in my wonderings as to Grima's whereabouts, and if he had been inadvertently caught in the tide of battle at the Isen.

"You are thinking of him, aren't you?"

Sunniva's question startled me, but not enough to give me pause. I secured the pony's tack to the cart and glanced at my initiate from the corner of my eye. "Thinking of whom?"

Her somber face settled into more stubborn lines, and I knew she wouldn't let her questions fade. "The king's counselor. The worm." I could not halt my flinching, and though subtle it might have been, Sunniva's sharp eyes caught it. Her lip curled, a faint disgust flitting through her blue eyes. "How could you bear his touch on you? He was foul in both body and spirit."

I turned to face her fully and watched as she flushed beneath my regard but did not back away. A part of me wanted to lie, to claim confusion and the beguilement by a man with an ugly face and form but a silver tongue. But even more than Swidhelm, Sunniva deserved my honesty, though it injured my pride to give it to her. "Yes, I think of him, and bore his touch willingly." I almost smiled at her expression, as if she'd just taken a healthy swallow of sour wine.

She spread her hands in confusion, shaking her head. "But what of Swidhelm? Surely, you knew of his regard for you? I remember Ceolwulf, Maeve. Swidhelm is nothing like him. Your Udela, blind as she was, would have seen that. Why not choose him?"

I did smile then, albeit it in a regretful way. To hear this young woman, already widowed and with the weight of grief heavy on her slender shoulders, question my wisdom regarding the ways of man and maid served only to highlight those things I asked myself on a daily basis. "Udela saw a great many things, Sunniva. She tried to sway me from my decision to marry Ceolwulf. She would have encouraged my interest in Swidhelm and likely boxed my ears for becoming leman to Grima Wormtongue. But we cannot always harness the feelings that move us, and wisdom doesn't always follow age." Her sun-browned features blurred before my eyes for a moment. "I have lost count of the things I would undo if time and foreknowledge were given back to me."

We stared at one another for long moments. "There was more to the son of Galmod than a bent body, Sunniva…and less as well," I said softly.

Her mouth thinned to a disapproving line. "He was never one of us," she snapped and walked away to lend a hand to Elswide.

I watched her leave, silently reeling at the impact of her words. They were the words, thought or spoken, of the many Rohirrim who surrounded me. I remembered my time with Grima among the ramparts of the Meduseld, in his chambers as he ate the blood broth, reclining on his bed, knotted strands of his black hair fanned over my thighs as he rested his cheek against my belly. My fingers danced lightly across my abdomen, where a fragile new being rested and seemed to drain the life from me . _He was never one of us._ "Nor am I," I murmured.

I finished my work with the cart before joining the other three at the fire. Sunniva remained distant, and none of us spoke of Rohan's greatest traitor. There was enough of that at other campfires, along with the crying of babes and the fearful conjectures of women who had sent their men off to battle. We settled in and waited. There were no more messengers, half-dead or otherwise until the fifth day of March, when a troop of twenty, wearied and sporting cracked and bloody armor rode into the camp.

Rohirrim swarmed the riders, desperate for news. Helms Deep had not been taken. The king, along with Erkenbrand and Gandalf Greymantle, was triumphant. The Meduseld also still stood, bright and golden on its crag, surrounded by a wind-blown Edoras. Wulfrune clutched my arm, squeezing hard so as to choke back her tears. I knew she thought of her modest house, built by her dead husband's loving hands.

There was great cheering and celebration after that, along with the grieving of those who had lost their loved ones at the Hornburg or the Isen. I was saddened to learn that Theoden's tall, golden-haired doorward, Hama, had died and prayed silently that the equally noble Swidhelm had not met the same fate.

Our time to celebrate was short-lived. The king returned four days later, worn and bruised but still proud in the saddle. I was reminded of that long ago summer, when the sun shone down on a head not so grey or a face so lined. But the pride was still there and the strength. He wasted little time in issuing orders for a Muster of Rohan. The threat in the east was greater than ever, and Minas Tirith, the home of my childhood, was under attack.

The camp became a hive of frenzied activity. Men and women rushed to repair broken weapons and armor and tend to their horses. Messengers were sent to all corners of Rohan, bidding all able-bodied eorlings to take up arms and join Theoden at Dunharrow. Wulfrune, Sunniva and I worked nearly non-stop to tend the wounded as best we could, easing the passing of those too far gone to save, binding those who bled but could still ride and fight. I caught sight of Swidhelm in the crowd but never found time to approach him. He once met my gaze briefly in a milling group of soldiers, nodding when I smiled my relief at seeing him whole and uninjured.

It was decided that some of the women, those with a measure of healing skills, would follow the Rohirrim from Dunharrow to Minas Tirith. Wulfrune, older and less hardy than I or Sunniva, chose to remain behind with her sister. They and others would again wait and hope under Eowyn's leadership for the return of their king and armies.

There were two score of us chosen to ride with the army, and with the coming of dawn, I saddled and mounted Cynwise, pulling Sunniva up behind me as we prepared to follow the Rohirrim to war. A sickness roiled in my gut, one not of pregnancy, but of fear. I had never ridden to war, and the memories of the bloody skirmish between my village and the Dunlendings under Saruman's command still brought me awake at nights, sweating and gasping for breath. The nightmares to plague me in later years would make these seem as child's play.

Bards sing of the glory of battle, of heroic deeds and great men with righteous souls. Even the most tragic tales are dressed in the raiment of noble forfeit. Their audiences sit around the heart fires listening, enraptured by the visions spun from a harp and a beguiling voice. It is a pleasure of innocence, a reality seen through woven strands of gold cloth. That is as it should be, for the truth, stripped of its finery, burns hot and dark in the minds of those who fought those battles and witnessed the sacrifices of family and friends. To recall them with anything other than song and famous deeds is to be plagued with a fitful sleep and dreams best left buried.

Later, in the twilight of my years, when I listened to the minstrels sing of the great war and the return of an exiled king, I recalled those grim days. One man broke free of a crushing yoke and met his death with honor. Another embraced the shackles of his enslavement in the fruitless hope of saving some small promise of power. A gracious city cracked beneath the hammer of an ancient evil, and a halfling lost something more precious than mithril. But clearest of all my recollections is that of broken men and slaughtered horses, and black orc blood staining the sun-bleached fields of the Pelennor.

* * *

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from Dorothy Dix, American columnist– "Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence."

A huge thank you to all who have kept up with this story, despite the long wait between updates. I truly appreciate you reading and commenting.

* * *

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – 6)The Reading Room – 7) The Haradrim – harad. 8) The Swan – 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – morrowdim. 10) Suite 101 – 11) Questia – 12) The Grima Dictionary – 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – 15) TolkienWiki Community – 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – www32. 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – 18) Map of Middle Earth – 19) Tolkien Maps – The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – www.dicksonc. 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – home.insight. 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	19. Behold a Pale Horse

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

_Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment._

_This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady._

**Chapter Nineteen – Behold a Pale Horse**

We left Dunharrow and the grassy Firienfeld, for the dangers awaiting us in Gondor. My palms were slippery on Cynwise's reins, a slow-building dread pooling in my veins like stagnant water. Sunniva sat behind me, resting against my back and snoring softly as the horse's steady gait lulled her to sleep. I envied her calm and comforted myself in the knowledge that at least with my initiate, I had chosen wisely. She remained a constant source of will and endurance, two things necessary for a healer of any worth.

There was little conversation or jesting amongst the Rohirrim, only a grim anticipation of what they rode toward and the rhythmic clop of horse hooves on the flattened ground. Many of the soldiers had just returned from the Isen or the Hornburg and knew they would again face the dark hordes of orc, Urak-hai, and whatever other abomination the shadowed east birthed from its diseased womb. These were brave men who faced their nightmares not once, but many times, even as they paled with fear.

The first night we camped, Swidhelm appeared at our small fire, ale flask in hand. I sat next to Sunniva, admiring his long stride and the way firelight tinged his beard and hair red as he drew closer. He was a fine man, of great valor with none of the overweaning vanity that sometimes came with heroism. His men respected and liked him, and the women. – well, it astounded me still that he had no wife or leman. When he sought out female companionship, it was with the whores of Edoras, or with me, the whore of Grima Wormtongue. That last thought sickened me, and I banished it. I was becoming morose and self-pitying and wished Udela there to slap me out of my gloom. I could almost hear her voice in my ear.

"Don't be pathetic, girl. You aren't unique in your stupidity."

The memory of her voice, even in its admonishment, cheered me, and when I met Swidhelm's gaze, it was with a smile. "Welcome, son of Hunwald. We've a bit of bread and aged mutton – well-aged mutton – to share." No sense in surprising him with the taste of the meat. It was only a day away from becoming rancid. Sunniva and I were thin on supplies, having left most everything with Wulfrune and Elswide at Dunharrow.

Pale blue eyes glittered in the semi-darkness, and his half-smile made my initiate blush. He squatted beside me, passing the ale flask across my lap to her. "My thanks, but I've eaten." He thrust his chin in the direction of the flask and winked at Sunniva. "A gift from Bana, son of Drefan." He pointed to a tall, slender lad close to Sunniva's age. He watched us from the corner of his eye, trying to appear intent on his campfire and failing miserably. I had seen him before, gazing at Sunniva as she ran her errands in Edoras.

"He's shy, but his family brews a fine ale." Swidhelm winked at me this time, as amused as I at the courting dance.

Sunniva clutched the flask in one hand and looked down at her lap, uncertain. Poor lass. It was hard to both grieve and shoulder the guilt of wanting to forget and live again. I touched her arm lightly. "Go on," I said. "You've only to offer your thanks if you wish. Nothing more."

Her eyes widened before she gave me a grateful smile and rose. Swidhelm and I watched as Bana stiffened in anticipation, turning so that he faced the approaching girl, his cheeks gone as rosy as Sunniva's when Swidhelm handed her the flask.

"He's a good lad. They'd suit each other."

I laughed, pleased beyond measure with Swidhelm's company. He had survived Helm's Deep. I wouldn't think of the coming battle at Minas Tirith. For now, he breathed and spoke and reminded me of all that was still right and decent in a world made dark by a faceless evil.

"You're a matchmaker now?" I teased, laughing again as his blonde brows lowered in a mock scowl.

"Hardly. It suited my purposes. The boy has driven me to distraction asking about her. I thought it best he ask her himself." He paused, his demeanor changing, intensifying, and I braced myself for the inevitable. "And I wanted time alone with you."

I wasn't angry with his persistence. How could I be? Were circumstances different, I would be ecstatic over his attentions. Instead, I could only yearn for something beyond my reach and remind myself that I had no right to use anyone, especially this man. I waited, returning his deep gaze.

"You have refused me, but I will not give up yet." His pale eyes blazed in his sun-browned face. "Your time with Grima means nothing to me, and others will forget as well." His hand, calloused from years of wielding a sword and the labors of everyday life, was warm as it wrapped around mine. "I would be a good husband to you, Maeve of Gondor. Maeve of Rohan."

That last brought tears rushing to my eyes, and I covered my mouth with my free hand, stifling the sobs threatening to escape. I squeezed his hand, finding strength in his touch as he crushed my fingers in his grip. It was so tempting. So very tempting to say yes. Even if he didn't live through the coming battle, my answer would lift his spirit. I could see it in his eyes. What a small word "yes" was, and it carried so much power. How easy to say it and watch all my doubts and fears fade. I could make him happy and find happiness myself over time. He would be a fine father to my bairn – a child with my gray eyes and hair the color of a…crow's wing.

Dreams die quickly in the face of reality. I lifted Swidhelm's hand and laid it against my cheek, feeling its rough texture, the gentleness and power in his touch. "I'd be the envy of every maiden in Edoras, but I'd make a poor wife to you, Swidhelm." I lowered his arm, bringing his hand to rest against my belly. "And the others would never forget."

His hand jerked instinctively, pulling away, and I loosened my grip on him. My chest hurt. All of me hurt as I watched his features pale and his blue eyes turn icy. His mouth thinned to a tight line within the shadows of his beard, curving downward in disgust at my revelation.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, sick to the depths of my spirit.

He closed his eyes and took a long breath. When he opened them again, they were warmer, filled with a terrible sympathy. Hi hand covered my stomach once more, resting lightly against my tunic. "What have you done, Maeve?"

I laughed again, only this time it was a hollow, reedy sound, brittle and insincere. "I ask myself that same question every hour."

After that, we sat in silence for long moments, me gazing at Swidhelm, he gazing at the place where his hand rested. He finally pulled away, and I watched his jaw harden with determination. I was growing familiar with that look. Enough was enough, and I cut him off before he made his proposal, scooting back from his touch to place some necessary distance between us.

"No," I said. "I know what you are about to say. You are an honorable man, but this would ruin both of us. You don't need a wife like me, and I don't want a martyr for a husband." I made my voice harsher, even as I flinched at my words. "We are not suited. We will never be suited."

His eyes narrowed. "You're a healer, with knowledge in all manner of things. The ways of women and the mistakes they sometimes make."

I knew what he alluded to, waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion.

"You want this babe."

"Yes."

He rose in one fluid motion, looming over me with a face dark as a storm cloud. "You are foolish."

Who could argue that one? I told myself the same all the time. "Yes."

"And you are stubborn."

"That too."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I still want to help you."

I stood then, not nearly as graceful as he, and grabbed his hand once more. "I'm grateful for any aid, Swidhelm, just not your sacrifice. There's a difference."

Pain, fleeting and nearly imperceptible, glittered in his eyes for a brief moment. "That isn't the reason I first asked, Maeve."

I ran my thumb along the back of his hand, sure in my belief that refusing him was right, but feeling small for it. "I know."

Swidhelm pulled me closer, kissing the inside of my palm before walking away. I watched him leave, taking comfort in knowing some other woman, with far fewer troubles than I, would offer him succor. A woman of Rohan to love him.

"Maeve," he said over his shoulder. "I've heard in council that Wormtongue lives. The king saw him in the ruins of Isengard, with the white wizard." He looked at me then, his gaze knowing and regreftful. "I thought you should know."

The blood rushed through my veins, and I breathed in sharply. Alive! The traitor of Rohan was alive, and I swallowed the cry of elation that rushed into my throat. Anger followed hot on its heels, and I wondered if it was possible to love and hate someone as fiercely as I loved and hated Grima Wormtongue.

"Your eyes blaze at his name."

Swidhelm's cool words jolted me, and I struggled to hide my thoughts from his all too discerning eyes. I laced my hands together to stop their trembling. "Thank you, Swidhelm. That means more than you know."

His wide shoulders lifted in a shrug, and his words were flat and hard. "Mayhap, but I'm fast learning. Sleep well, Maeve."

He walked away then, passing Sunniva as she returned to our camp, flushed and smiling. She nodded once to Swidhelm, pausing to stare at him in puzzlement before continuing on. I sat down once more and stirred the dying fire. Sunniva lowered herself next to me.

"Did you two have words? The horselord looked angry."

I hadn't wanted that. "We came to an understanding."

"He will make a fine husband."

"Yes, he will, but he is not for me."

She drew a breath to reply, but I had no wish to argue with yet another person.

"Sunniva."

Her mouth snapped closed at my warning, and she soon busied herself with preparing our supplies for the morning's rise.

I slept poorly that night, rising well before dawn and many of the riders. Cynwise wuffled a greeting and nuzzled my hair as I bent to remove her hobble. The camp came slowly to life as I groomed the mare and prepared to saddle her. Sunniva made us a quick breakfast of watery porridge and cheese. We ate our meal to the sound of clanking armor and muttered complaints. In the distance I heard a bellowed command, one repeated through the ranks of men and horses. We broke down our camp and mounted, heading out for another day's journey toward Gondor.

Swidhelm didn't visit me that night, or the night after, when we camped under Minrimmon with its warning beacon burning bright above us. It was a harsh reminder of where we rode to and why. Two days out from Minas Tirith, we camped in the Druadan Forest under the protection of the strange and secretive Druedain. Even as a child, I'd heard of the Woses and their hatred for the orcs.

By the time we reached the Grey Wood, I was dreading my time in the saddle. My companions were born to it. I was not, and in those moments, when we traveled so slowly because of our numbers, I let Sunniva guide Cynwise while I walked beside them. The babe, unnoticed beneath my tunic, continued to drain my strength. It added to my discomfort by turning my stomach at every smell to assail my nostrils. Fresh venison turned on a spit made me sway with nausea, and I, a healer used to being bathed in blood to my elbows, wanted to vomit at the sight of a fresh kill. Sunniva eyed me suspiciously, even as I refused to tell her the cause of my "illness".

All my small miseries were forgotten when we finally arrived on the edge of the Pelennor Fields. In the far distance, I saw Mina Tirith, the home of my youth. The White City, built on a hill below Mount Mindollun, rose skyward in alabaster majesty. I caught my breath, awed by my first view of it after a decade of absence. That awe soon turned to horror. Black smoke coiled around the city in serpentine patterns. Below us, lay the stuff of nightmares. Rammas Echor, the wall surrounding the Pelennor had been breached, and the fields overrun by a writhing mass of orcs and Dunlendings, cloak-shrouded Haradrim and their monstrous Mûmakil. Mordor's armies spread over the Pelennor , a black postule on a dying plague victim. Flaming disks soared through the air toward Minas Tirith, slamming into the city walls and gates. Each time they struck, a deafening roar rose from the legions of attackers.

I looked to either side of me. Rohirrim faced forward, helmeted and grim as they closed ranks in readiness for a charge. Some breathed in tight, shallow patterns, their lips bloodless beneath the concealing face shields. They saw what I did – impossible odds. We were no more than six thousand, and below us, Sauron's minions who outnumbered us by more times than I could count. Death awaited every Rohirrim who sat his horse and prepared to ride down the slopes.

We heard Eomer's voice, and Gamling's as they rode past the lines, calling out orders, raising the fighting fever of those who would surely meet their end. I turned to the other healers who had traveled with the cavalry. We stared at each other, saying with our expressions what we couldn't bear to put in words. We would be useless here. There would be no one to save, and none of us could raise the dead. We pulled back, away from the ridge, and watched as Theoden Ednew rallied his troops with his cries of "Death!" and led them down the hillside.

I shall never forget that day, in all its horror and glory. The Rohirrim charged into the ranks, the thunder of hooves shaking the ground beneath our feet as they slammed into the orc hoardes. I sat frozen on Cynwise and watched the slaughter before me, breaking my gaze only once to see Sunniva next to me, holding her hand to her mouth as she keened her grief. I think I might have forgotten to breathe, so sure the battle would end quickly, and the light of Rohan would be drowned beneath a sea of blood.

It didn't happen that way. The Eorlingas slashed and butchered their way through the multitudes of attacking orcs and Haradrim. They sang their deathsong, voices rising above the din of black speech, and their swords and spears flashed bright in the scorching sun.

I nearly retched as a Mûmakil swung its giant tusks, skewering a screaming horse. Blood sprayed in the air and the horseless rider tumbled into the masses where he was surely crushed. Above the fields and the city, fell beasts soared and dove, screeching a high wailing sound that made the ears bleed and sent half the healers with me to their knees. Cynwise's ears flattened against her head, and she tried to bolt, stopped only by my grip on the reins and Sunniva's steady hold on her bridle.

Time flew and yet stood still as we waited, and watched, prayed and begged the Valar to save our own and give us victory. And they answered. Men streamed onto the fields from the south, joining Theoden's beleagured Rohirrim in their fight. The killing and fighting continued in an endless cycle of death, but I cheered alongside the women with me, for while many of the Rohirrim lost their lives, it was the orcs who now fell in great numbers. At the time I didn't understand why the tide turned in our favor so quickly. Days later I heard of Aragorn's return with reinforcements from Gondor's southern fiefdoms and the cursed army who traveled the Paths of the Dead. They and the Rohirrim had saved Minas Tirith.

It was late afternoon before the fields quieted, strewn with the bodies of orcs, men, horses and Mûmakil. We picked our way slowly down the hillside, desperate to find and save as many of our people as we could. It was a monumental task, and all of us knew we would burn and bury more than we would bind. Triumph is a bitter draught, no matter who wins the day. I expected to see many familiar faces with sightless eyes on that churned and bloodied field, even Swidhelm's. But nothing prepared me or the others for what we discovered once we reached the silent and the grieving, and saw Eomer on his knees in a pool of scarlet and black blood. Rohan had lost its noble and redeemed king.

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from the Holy Bible, King James version, Revelations 6; verse 8 - "And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."

Grima's been a bit scarce in the past two chapters. You'll see more of him now that the time line moves forward.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – 6)The Reading Room – 7) The Haradrim – harad. 8) The Swan – 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – morrowdim. 10) Suite 101 – 11) Questia – 12) The Grima Dictionary – 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – 15) TolkienWiki Community – 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – www32. 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – 18) Map of Middle Earth – 19) Tolkien Maps – The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – www.dicksonc. 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – home.insight. 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	20. Way Leads on to Way

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

Chapter 20 – Way Leads on to Way

Despite my years as a healer, I was never rendered impervious to the sorrows death left in its wake. It was one of the many lessons Udela taught me. Strength didn't reside in the ability to resist mourning, but to embrace it, suffer it, then leave it behind. The two of us together had lost many to the misfortunes of fate and human existence, despite our best efforts to save them. I sometimes wondered why I chose such a profession, one that dealt in sickness and pain, blood and tears. Then I remembered my mentor, fierce and unbroken, who cried in solitude and later turned a resolute face to the world.

"Our way is not one of sorrow, Maeve," she said, "but of hope. Gather your things. There are wounds to heal today."

Those words, and others like it, whispered in my ear as I moved among the dead and injured scattered across the Pelennor like so much chaff. The healers from Rohan were quickly joined by those from Minas Tirith, and we worked under the direction of Aelis, a tall, spare woman with a booming voice that carried easily across the fields. I recognized the name. Udela had spoken of her a few times, always in admiring tones. A senior leech with great influence in the Houses of Healing, she was one of very few my mentor respected in our profession.

"Pair together with a soldier and work in a line from west to east. Leave the dead for later." Aelis's hands were stained crimson as she pointed and put us to our tasks.

I can no longer recall the faces of those I helped or those whose sightless eyes I shut. They haunted me in my dreams the first decade after the battle, but faded slowly as time wore on. Still, I remember the day itself – long and despairing. The smell of blood and smoke hung thick in the air, as did the sounds of suffering. We tended the wounded, working at a feverish pace to get them off the fields and behind the city's broken walls. When we weren't bandaging or offering last moments of comfort, we swatted swarms of black flies and chased carrion birds away from bodies. Every available horse was used to carry the survivors into Minas Tirith. Some warriors rode upright on their mounts; others were slung across saddles and led slowly away.

The moon was high and the air cold by the time we trudged into the city. There were still countless numbers lying on the Pelennor, but they were tended to by a more rested contingent of healers and soldiers from the White City. I was numb with exhaustion and hunger; my belly roiled with nausea. I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but I needed food and soon. The urge to retch grew stronger with every minute.

A guide led us through the warren of vaguely familiar alleyways and lanes of the city's first level. We skirted broken stone and broken bodies, both orc and human. The wail of women mourning accompanied our steps as we made our way to the Old Guesthouse.

I remembered the inn from my childhood, when my mother would send me to fetch my father from his customary place at the bar. It was mostly unchanged, save for broken windows, soot stains on its weathered face and charred grass surrounding the steps.

The innkeeper, resilient in his defiance to keep the inn open despite Minas Tirith crumbling around him, gave us cloths and water to clean the blood off our hands and arms, and we ate stale bread washed back with ale. I fell asleep sitting against a wall, a piece of bread still clutched in my fingers. When I awakened, it was to find Sunniva's sleeping form draped across my lap, her face half-buried in my dirty skirts. Early morning light, dulled by the Shadow in the east, streamed in thin bars through an empty window frame. I had slept only a few hours, feeling no more rested than when I first sat down and now with a stiff neck to add to my discomfort.

There is little use in dwelling on those things you cannot know or cannot change, yet sitting there, caressing my initiate's braided hair, I couldn't help wondering if Swidhelm had survived this battle and if his words still held—that Grima Wormtongue lived. There was so much death around me, it seemed unfair that Rohan's betrayer would survive. Yet the selfish part of me, the part that insisted I keep a traitor's child, was glad for it and chanted incessantly in my mind that I seek him out.

I shuddered in resistance and shook Sunniva awake. "Come, lass. We've no time to laze about. Relieve yourself and meet me outside. I smell cooking fires. We'll eat and return to the field."

She sat up, pushing wayward strands of straggling blonde hair from her face. I gasped when she met my gaze. My initiate was no longer a young woman. Still fair, with the smooth, unlined skin of youth, Sunniva looked back at me with the haggard, ancient expression I'd seen in many a crone's eyes.

I couldn't help my words, nor could I explain them. "I am sorry, Sunniva."

There are many reasons why I chose her as my initiate, reasons that went beyond a sharp mind and adept hands. Her words reminded me of how astute she was and how strong.

Sunniva gave me a grim smile. "Don't be. You look as I do."

I took no offence. Had I a mirror in the days following that battle, I am certain her words were kindly meant, for we worked ourselves into exhaustion, offering our help in the Houses of Healing and to those in the city itself and the nearby dales.

There is much to the tale of saving Middle Earth, but I leave such glories and deeds to the skilled tongues of bards for the telling. The acts of sorcerers and brave shield maidens are written in books and sung around hearthfires. My small role in this epic is of no consequence. I did no less and no more than countless others who fought and died, not for the glory of battle, but for the safety of loved ones. Such motivations make kings of exiled rangers and saviors of hobbit gardeners.

Despite my return to Minas Tirith, I had no wish to linger. The home of my childhood, it was now a foreign land to me. Rohan, with her rolling plains and horse herds, beckoned with its familiarity. I had friends there—Elswide and Wulfrune among them—and memories, and a tie that bound me by blood and loss. I would go back, though I did not know if I would stay. A craven man yet lived in drowned Isengard, and it was to him I felt the urge to ride.

When the great Eye in the east fell to ruin, and Mordor's shadows rolled back to the mount, the peoples of Gondor and Rohan cheered and celebrated. There was much rejoicing for the next weeks, lasting into May with the crowning of King Elessar. Many of the Rohirim still in Mina Tirith took their leave after that and made their way home, I among them. Swidhelm, alive and whole, despite a broken arm and a nose that would be crooked henceforth, rode beside me partway. I welcomed his company, this noble man with his proud bearing and pale, battle-weary eyes.

We had easy conversation between us, as if his offer and my refusal outside Dunharrow were forgotten. I ignored Sunniva's knowing smile as she rode beside us on a borrowed horse and sent her farther up the line to keep company with distant kindred.

"She thinks you accept my courting."

Swidhelm's expression remained neutral as I met his gaze, though I saw a spark there that set a warning ring within me. I didn't wish to resurrect a false hope. "Sunniva fancies herself a matchmaker. Truth be told, it is odd for a man and maid to be no more than friends."

"And this is all you will ever consider between us?"

I did not look away. "Yes." I reached out, placing a hand on his arm. Muscle rippled beneath my palm, the warmth of his skin bathing my fingers, even through his heavy shirt. "You are a good man, Swidhelm, but misguided in this. Even if I accepted your generous offer, what shadow would dog the footsteps of the children I'd bear you?"

I looked again to my traveling companions, men returning home to their wives and children, thankful to be alive and riding to a country free of both Sauron and the hand of Saruman despite Grima's machinations. "These people tolerate me because I am useful and have lived among them for many years. But I am tainted by my association with Wormtongue, and you would be as well should you take me to wife. You owe your kindred and their sacrifice more than that, son of Hunwald."

He looked to me then, and I saw in his gaze a reluctant pity and the recognition of a truth I had tried to impart to him. "Then you make yourself outcast, Maeve," he said. "If you cannot put aside his memory, those around you cannot either."

"I know."

For an odd moment, he reminded me of Udela, with his mouth down-turned in a scowl of disapproval, and I smiled. I think she'd have given her wholehearted support had I chosen one like him instead of Ceolwulf as my husband those many years ago. I did not conjecture over what might have been her views regarding Grima. The possiblities alone scorched my ears red.

Swidhelm glanced down, his hard face half obscured by a loose fall of blond hair. "It may be ill-judged to tell you this, but I heard rumors in Minas Tirith, of Saruman and his thrall deserting Orthanc and heading west. There are towns of men there and the lands of the small folk like those who destroyed the ring. Whether Saruman seeks sanctuary or vengeance, I know not, but the Worm walks with him."

That need to find Grima, no matter the dangers or the costs, blossomed into a compulsion at Swidhelm's words. No, I would not stay long in Rohan, only long enough to say goodbye to friends and gather my meager belongings to me. As if in response to my decision, a flutter of movement, like the caress of a moth's wings, danced in my belly. I gasped and laid my hand at my waist.

Swidhelm's eyes narrowed to slits. "What manner of man will you find should you seek him out, Maeve? Even if he does not reject you, he is less than nothing now—bound to a deposed wizard. What can he offer you and the babe you carry?"

His words were soft, spoken low so those riding near us couldn't hear. But they were hard words, cutting words—not because they were cruel but because they were true. I could not deny my fear of what might await me when I found Grima. If I found him. Such defeat—the crushing of so many dark dreams—would change anyone, especially someone so consumed with the visions of power as Grima Wormtongue. But the voice urging me to seek him out never silenced its persuasion.

"I don't know what I will find, Swidhelm, and truth be known, I'm frightened. But I must do this, even if it ends with me alone in a strange land." I smiled then to reassure him. "I am used to the traveler's roads, friend. You need not worry."

The horse lord's scowl deepened before softening with resignation. He reached to Cynwise and ran a caressing hand down her neck. "If what you find is more than you can bear, come to back to Rohan, Maeve. You will again find a place among the Rohirrim."

The tears glazing my vision stung, and I blinked them away. His words were kind, the ones unspoken generous to fault. _"You will find a place with me."_

My dead mentor's rebuke rang loud in my thoughts.

"_You foolish, foolish woman." _

_

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Please review._

Chapter title is taken from the poem The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost - "And both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back."

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – 6)The Reading Room – 7) The Haradrim – harad. 8) The Swan – 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – morrowdim. 10) Suite 101 – 11) Questia – 12) The Grima Dictionary – 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – 15) TolkienWiki Community – 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – www32. 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – 18) Map of Middle Earth – 19) Tolkien Maps – The Undefinable Shadowland – 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – www.dicksonc. 23) The Legacy of the Horse – 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – 25) History of Rohan – 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html 27) Herd Behavior – 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – home.insight. 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – mahan.wongwang.ac.kr


	21. An Invincible Summer

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment.

This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady.

**Chapter Twenty-one – An Invincible Summer**  
**  
**I'd known I would grieve my departure from Rohan. For almost nine years, I'd lived amongst the Eorlingas, never fully accepted but welcomed for my healing skills. Such welcome was no longer accorded to me. I'd lain with Rohan's greatest traitor, willingly and often. It was enough to condemn me in the eyes of many Rohirrim. Even the knowledge that I'd ridden with the army and given succor to the wounded and the dying on bloody fields was not enough to grant me absolution. I'd expected such and while humiliated, was not surprised the first time a woman spat on me in Edoras's revived marketplace.

That night I borrowed a map from a friend of Wulfrune's and planned my journey north and west. Wulfrune kept her own counsel as she helped me pack my meager belongings. Her wise gaze was sad but approving, and she nodded when I placed my hands over my growing belly as the babe shifted inside me. The time had come to leave Rohan, if not to find Grima then to lose myself amongst the towns of men where the name Wormtongue was not spoken with a curse and his mistress nothing more than a nameless woman with a healer's touch and some soldier's get under her skirts.

I said my goodbyes to the women who had become as family to me. No man will ever understand the strength of a woman's tears. Forged in the fires of hope and tragedy, they are more fragile than spun glass and more enduring than the finest sword. They are shields against grief and weapons of the clever. Between Elswide, Wulfrune, Sunniva and I, we wept enough to equip an army larger than the one that rode down the slopes of the Pelennor.

"I'd follow you if you ask." Sunniva squeezed my hand, and I was once again mesmerized by those ancient eyes in so young a face.

I tucked a stray strand of blonde hair back into her braid. "You're Rohirrim born and bred. You belong here. I've taught you enough to make your way as a healer, and you have Wulfrune to look to. She's forgotten more than I've learned about the ways of leechcraft."

"I'm no Udela the Blind." Wulfrune frowned, the furrows between her brows carving north roads of their own in her skin.

"And I'm no Wulfrune of Rohan. I learned much from you, my friend. Sunniva will learn even more."

When I reached for Elswide, she stepped back, crossing her formidable arms. She sniffled amidst tears, but her words were sharp and admonishing.

"Foolish woman. I'd think you blind as your teacher was. Ye had a fine man sniffing after your skirts. Why couldn't you lay with him instead of that craven cur? You could have stayed in Rohan. Edoras needs its healers, especially now."

I didn't argue. She was right, but I'd not listened to her wisdom earlier and would deal with my folly now.

"I brought back your knife," I quipped.

"A pity it didn't have the Worm's blood on it."

Fierce Elswide. She might have been less disapproving had I only allowed Grima the intimacy of my body.

Her scowl softened, and she enfolded me in an embrace that smelled of rising dough and cooking fires. Words, harshly spoken, gave me comfort. "Daft creature. When you grow tired of your wanderings, come home. You and your babe will find welcome with me. Always."

Those were words I held close as I saddled Cynwise and rode her through the Meduseld to the lower gates. Rohan stretched out before me, sweeping and golden as a shield maiden's hair. I'd miss her rolling plains and herds of horses as much as I'd miss her people. A faint prickling crawled across my back. I turned and caught sight of a horseman in the distance. I recognized the set of proud shoulders and wavy strands of blond hair shifting in the breeze. He held a spear and raised it high—a token of salute or farewell or both. Tears blurred my vision once more, and I lifted my hand in response before turning Cynwise northward. Miles later and I fancied I still felt Swidhelm's gaze on my back.

There is little to remark about my journey to the lands between Arnor and Eriador. I followed the North Road past Helm's Deep and through the Gap of Rohan, pausing near the Fords of Isen. I looked east toward ruined Isengard, knowing it stood empty and broken, drowned by the Isen and guarded by trees that walked. Still, I heard the sibilant whisper of Grima's voice on the wind and in the river's shallow tumble as it flowed over rocks worn smooth by the water's caress. The babe rolled and stretched in my ever-swelling belly as if it too reached for its father's dark echo.

The weather held for my journey, sunny days broken briefly by intermittent showers that cooled the air and brought on the scent of green, growing things. Only once did I have a mishap—a minor one and not worth dwelling on had I not carried a child. Cynwise, usually surefooted, stepped into a deep rut gouged by a wagon wheel and pitched to her knees. Lulled by her steady walk and nearly asleep in the saddle, I was caught by surprise. I lost my seat and struck ground hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs. I lay wheezing on the road. Alarm replaced the shock of my fall, and I spread my palms over my belly, seeking that steady butterfly motion that assured me of the babe's well-being. Cynwise's whinny of pain drowned my whimper of relief as the babe moved.

The mare had regained her footing but heavily favored her front right leg. Still breathless and hurting from kissing hard ground, I limped to her, patting her withers and crooning an Eorlinga lullaby. She remained quiet while I checked her leg. Our luck held. She hadn't broken or torn anything, though the leg would be tender for a day or two, and I'd have to walk beside her instead of ride. I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Valar for their mercy. I held onto a slender thread of hope at finding Grima once more. That thread would have snapped with grief had I been forced to put down my faithful Cynwise.

We both limped off the main road where I set up camp beneath a sheltering canopy of oaks. I spent the evening preparing and packing a poultice around Cynwise's leg and brewed tea for myself—a concoction to strengthen pregnancies. And I prayed again, prayed that I wouldn't find bright blood between my thighs as the night wore on, prayed the fall was but a clumsy tumble that did nothing more than snap my teeth together and flatten my lungs for a moment. The Valar heard and granted their boons.

Two months on the road and we finally reached Bree. Summer had faded into fall, the air grown cooler during the day and cold at night. The trees were losing their leaves and I'd lost my waist. During my journey north, I'd heard tales from other travelers of an old magic user called Sharkey who controlled the lands of the hobbits, farther west, on the other side of the Old Forest. He had a henchman, a nameless, pitiful creature who scuttled more than walked and followed his master like a beaten dog. Despite the bleak nature of such rumors, my spirits rose. Surely, this was Saruman of Isengard and Grima, son of Galmod.

Were I not so close to my birthing time when I reached Bree, I would have ridden for Buckland the first time I heard the rumors, but Grima's offspring had other ideas. I'd grown both gravid and awkward as the child swelled my belly. Riding Cynwise hurt, and I spent more time walking beside her than sitting on her back. The journey to the Shire would have to wait, and I could only hope Saruman did not make off for wilds unknown with Grima in tow.

I found sanctuary in a small village outside of Bree called Chetshire. A healer, even an outlander, can usually find welcome in most places. I had a valuable service to offer and would be of some use to the villagers. The village midwife, a young woman named Ailne, led me to an empty cottage. Small but solidly built with a yard big enough to house a sow or two and a coop of chickens, it stood abandoned, its interior dark and gray with dust. I glanced at my companion, curious why such a house had no occupant.

Ailne's eyes held an old grief. "'Twas my brother's home before he died. He left no wife or children. You're welcome to stay here."

"My thanks." I patted my distended belly. "I can't lift the sick from their beds for baths at the moment, but I'm a fair draught brewer and good at setting bones. I also tended the wounded at the Pelennor, and I'm willing to barter goods for service."

Ailne sucked in a breath, eyes growing round. "We heard of the great wars. A few men of Bree traveled East to fight. Some returned home. Others didn't." She used the hem of her apron to swipe the dust off a chair seat. "It will seem quite dull here for one who traversed the battlefields of Gondor."

If only she knew the magic of her words. I craved dull and quiet. I waddled around the house, a two-room abode with a hearth in one corner of the main room and another in a smaller room with a bed and roughly carved chest. With a little cleaning, it would be a good place to rest, bear a child and recover my strength until I was again on the road hunting for Grima.

"You'll bear your babe soon." The midwife stood near the door, casting a critical eye over me. "End of October at the latest.

I'd measured my birthing sometime in late November. While I'd delivered my fair share of children, I bowed to the expertise of a woman whose role was chiefly such endeavors. "Do you think so?"

She chuckled. "I'd bet good coin on it. You're near carrying that babe on your knees now. It won't be long. When you're ready, I'll help you."

Young though she was, Ailne knew her calling. I had only three weeks to settle in Chetshire. I felt my first pangs that morning, while I set a broken arm for the blacksmith's son and brewed him a draught to ease the pain and help him sleep. I'd had mild pains the past two days, clear warnings that my time was imminent and thought nothing of these save more signals that my birthing day drew closer. Those pangs made themselves known with a vengeance as I scattered seed for the half dozen chickens I'd taken as payment for treating a villager's infected foot.

The pain bent me double, and I clutched my belly as my insides curled themselves into a hundred knots and pulled tight. I stayed hunched and gasping until the pains passed. Knowing I'd have another one soon enough, I hobbled across the village's only lane and pounded on the door. It opened to the cooper's wife who grew wide-eyed at the sight of me slouched against her doorframe, my skirts soaked from birth water.

"Niamh," I gasped. "Fetch Ailne."

I don't remember everything of that birthing, mostly just impressions of sweat and pain and pushing. Ailne's voice sometimes coaxing, other times commanding, instructed me to hold onto the birthing pole and bear down. I squatted amidst a clean sheet spread on the floor and pushed until I thought my lungs would burst. I'd done this before, years earlier—a fruitless battle that yielded nothing more than a silent, blue-skinned infant. Now I prayed between frantic breaths to have this child live.

"One last time, Maeve. I can see the head. Push hard."

I did as she said and screamed out Grima's name as I forced the babe from my body. Convulsive shudders tore through me as I clutched the birthing pole with shaking hands. I listened, my own heartbeat thundering so loud in my ears, it nearly drowned out every other sound.

"Please," I whispered. "Please, please, please."

I tried to see over my shoulder, but Ailne, wise to the ways of mothers, stayed just out of my field of vision. I saw only a flash of swaddling as she rubbed the child vigorously. The silence filled the house and tears filled my eyes. At the first mewling squawk, I crumpled to my knees amidst a wet pool of blood and water and cried.

"You'll have to save that for later, Maeve. I've someone here who wishes to meet you." She thrust a wrapped bundle in my arms. "You can hold her for a moment, and then we need to take care of the afterbirth and clean you both."

As with the birth itself, I remember nothing save resting in bed, clean, exhausted and elated to hold my daughter in my arms. Wrinkled and bleary-eyed, with a flattened face and a skull misshapen by the rigors of birth, she was the most beautiful being I'd ever beheld. I knew that her head would round out and her features soften and smooth, but even if they hadn't I would have thought her a child blessed by the Valar.

Black-haired and small like Grima, she bore his countenance in the tilt of her eyes and the shape of her chin. Her eyebrows were mine as was the dimple in her left cheek. I could only guess the shape of her nose would become or how the color of her infant blue eyes might change.

A certain peace settled within me. I'd missed Rohan fiercely and sometimes wondered if I made the right decision. Looking at this baby now, clearly Grima's and also mine, I knew I had. In Rohan, she would have been a pariah, condemned for the sins of a father she'd never know. Here, amongst strangers, she was simply the Gondorian healer's child, a dark haired babe like other dark-haired children living in Chetshire.

"What will you name her?" Ailne's amused question broke through my daughter's bewitchment of my attention. The midwife stood drying her hands. Neat and tidy, without a strand of hair escaping her plait or a sweat drop to be seen, she looked as if she'd taken a leisurely walk through Chetshire wood instead of delivering a baby.

The baby yawned and blinked swollen eyes as she tried to focus on the voices around her. I caressed the tufts of her soft black hair that stood up in defiance of my stroking. "Udela. Her name is Udela."

"Not a common name in this area."

"No," I said. "I suppose not. It means Wealthy, and she's made me so. Also, my mentor's name was Udela. An admirable woman."

"I like it. Far more poetic than what Dame Brevia named her newest child." Ailne grinned. "She called her Nona. It means Ninth, and Nona was her ninth baby. No one ever accused Brevia of being cryptic."

We both laughed until I stopped short on a groan and a wince. Ailne reached out and tucked the blanket securely under Udela's chin. "Do you need help with putting her to the breast?" I shook my head. "Good, I'll leave you to it then. I'll take these soiled linens to be washed and return to make you some food."

She left us alone, and in the candlelit dimness of the house, I admired the small girl I'd carried through a bleak spring, a fearful summer and uncertain fall. Her small mouth worked in an open-close movement, reminding me of the gold fish I'd once seen swimming in a rich Gondorian merchant's pond. I'd helped enough young mothers to know how to coax a baby to nurse. Soon, Udela rested against my breast and ate her first meal. I hugged her gently and again stroked the soft black hair.

"There are men in the world so noble and courageous, their deeds will be written in books and told in song. Your father is not one of these men." A red anger burned through my veins, turning my exhaustion to ash. The man who chafed at sitting at a king's feet now bowed and scraped before a deposed wizard. He'd left behind him a legacy of shame and failure.

A tiny hand closed around my finger and squeezed. I shook off my rage and stared at my daughter nursing so contentedly. Not all shame, not all failure. He'd given me this child. I might have been the only person in all of Middle Earth to do so at the moment, but I thanked Grima Wormtongue and asked the Valar's blessing on him.

The days following Udela's birth were happy ones, even though I suffered from lack of sleep, sore breasts and the occasional bout of ridiculous crying. Such maudlin moments crept up on me at unexpected times. I've never been one to weep easily, not even at the Pelennor with so much death surrounding me, yet I sobbed over a burned loaf of bread or the fact that Udela's hair was black instead of red like mine. For her part, Udela grew swiftly and watched everything around her with a gaze that grew more focused each day. Like all mothers who lacked the riches to afford wet nurses and nannies, I carried the baby in a makeshift sling and carried on with my work. With the end of harvest season and winter near upon us, there were sickle wounds to tend, bones to reset and coughs to ease.

In early November I traveled to Bree with Ailne and replenished my depleted stores of herbs. I still possessed a little money I'd carried from Rohan, but only used it when I couldn't barter. Such practice served me well when I roamed the Bree market and bought supplies for winter.

The sun had passed noon when we started back for Chetshire. Ailne guided her small wagon loaded with all manner of goods while I rode beside her on Cynwise, Udela nestled against me in her sling. The midwife had a gift for storytelling and regaled me with a tall tale from her childhood when she suddenly stopped.

"Would you look at that? It's not often you see halflings venturing out of the Shire to the towns of men. I hear they're a hardy, industrious lot but not very brave."

Having witnessed the entire city of Minas Tirith and its king genuflect before a ragtag group of hobbits who'd literally saved Middle Earth, I opened my mouth to argue her point. I didn't get out the first word when a foul smell, like week old garbage left to swelter in the summer heat, wafted to my nose.

Ailne pulled her apron up to her nose. "What do they have with them? A moldering barrow wight?" Her words were muffled by the apron. I followed suit, using my voluminous sleeve to shield my nose from the horrendous smell.

The hobbits drew closer, leading a mid-sized draft horse with a makeshift sled attached to his harnesses. A heap of rotting black clothes rested on the sled and swarmed with flies. Like Ailne and I, the hobbits covered their noses and mouths with kerchiefs and walked swiftly as if to keep some distance between them and their odorous cargo.

Cynwise snorted in protest as they drew closer and danced off the road. I sawed on the reins and guided her back with coaxing words and nudges of my heels. I didn't blame her for wanting to get away from the stench. As we drew near, I got a closer look at the small company and gasped in recognition.

One halfling, more slender than his kin and with the bluest, most shattered gaze, met my eyes and stopped. The others stopped with him. Ailne brought her horse to a halt and frowned at me as I held Cynwise to the road and faced the halfling leader. He pulled the kerchief away from his face as I dismounted, and I knew then I'd recognized him true.

I knelt before him, amidst Ailne's surprised exclamation and the murmurs of the other halflings. "Frodo Baggins, I am honored."

Those amazing eyes reflected the shadows of a soul stripped down to its threads. Whatever the greatest hero of Middle Earth had witnessed before the Eye's black rage and timely demise, it had left a chasm of a scar inside him.

"Do I know you?" His voice, calm and deeper than one might expect, was polite, reflecting back nothing more than a fleeting image of emotion quickly lost.

"No, but I know of you. I was at the Pelennor during and after the battle, and then at the coronation of King Elessar. All of Middle Earth is in your debt."

A faint, sad smile passed over his lips and was gone. "I intend to use that when next I want a half pint of beer at an inn." He touched my shoulder briefly. "Please stand. I am no king and no hero. If my gardener were here, I'd tell you save it for him. He deserves it far more than I do."

I rose and bowed. The revolting smell pouring off the sled was stronger, and I heard Ailne cough behind me.

"Sweet Valar, Maeve, I'll retch if we don't get free of that hideous stench."

My curiosity was greater than my revulsion, and I turned to Frodo. "What foul thing do you drag to Bree?"

He hesitated a moment and glanced at his kin. They returned his gaze with hopeful ones. "A man. Gravely wounded. We have skilled healers, but none who know the constitution of men, and this one isn't welcomed in the Shire."

My eyebrows had climbed at his explanation. More by instinct than rational choice, I shrugged Udela's sling over my shoulder and handed the baby to a stunned Ailne.

"Maeve! What are you doing?"

I ignored her. "I'm a healer of men. I may be able to help." I didn't mistake the sighs of relief from the halflings or Frodo's grateful smile.

My steps slowed as I approached the sled, and my heart jumped in my throat. Even caked with dirt and blood and who knew what else, I recognized the ruins of intricate Haradrim embroidery on a torn lota. Heedless of the black flies buzzing around me, I knelt at the sled and slowly peeled away the encrusted garment.

Grima, son of Galmod and king's counselor, had been reduced to little more than worm bait. Pallid skin, decorated with yellow and black bruises, stretched parchment thin over sharp bones. He bore arrow wounds on his back, and it was these that gave off the putrid stench. They seeped bloody pus over healing whip marks, soaking the dirty robes beneath him. His face, never handsome, had withered with suffering, a corpse's restless repose.

I must have moaned my horror for a small hand came to rest on my shoulder and squeezed. Frodo's voice was warmer with a terrible compassion. "You know this man."

"Yes." I shuddered, stretching out a shaking hand to thread my fingers through oily black hair sticky with blood and crawling with lice. I no longer minded the stench as I breathed deep to gather my wits. Grima's robes would have to be burned, but I covered him once more to protect him from the flies. That he wasn't dead already seemed nothing short of a Valar miracle. I prayed they remained merciful and gave me the chance to save him.

I rose and faced Frodo. "You don't have to go to Bree. Bring him to Chetshire. I will take him and nurse him."

"Maeve!" Ailne clutched a squirming Udela to her and stared at me as if I'd lost my senses. "Have you gone mad? Why would you take this creature into your home? Look at him. He's covered in vermin and near dead already.

In that moment, words flowed over my tongue like honey, rich and sweet and filled with hope. "Of course I will nurse him. He's Udela's father."

* * *

**/noflash/tour/minastirith.asp**** 6) The Reading Room - ****/readingroom/display.cfm?id1149**** 7) The Haradrim - ****harad./umbarharadrim.php**** 8) The Swan - ****/theswan/kramer2.html**** 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth - ****morrowdim./eowyn.html**** 10) Suite 101 - ****/article.cfm/4786/104920****  
11) Suite 101 - ****/article.cfm/tolkien/96689**** 12) Suite 101 - ****/article.cfm/tolkien/92091**** 13) Questia - ****/popularSearches/jrrtolkien.jsp**** 14) The Grima Dictionary - ****/dictionary.html**** 15) The Undefinable Shadowland - ****/focus/f-chat/827154/posts**** 16) The Lexicon of Rohan -****/edhellond/research/rohanpeople.htm**** (17) TolkienWiki Community - ****/wiki.cgi?FrontPage**** 18) Languages of Middle/Lesson Two: ****www32./riennoraina/lesson2.html**** 19) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English): ****/dna/h2g2/A695478**** 20) Map of Middle Earth - ****/localinks/mearth/mearthmap.html**** 21) Tolkien Maps - ****/index2.html**** 22) The Undefinable Shadowland - ****/focus/f-chat/827154/posts**** 22) A Short History of the term "Farrier" ****/advice/ryan1/thsofttr.htm**** 23) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College: Significance of the Stirrup - ****www.dicksonc..au/Showcase/ClioContents/Clio2/stirrup.html**** 24) The Legacy of the Horse – ****/imh/kyhpl2a.html#xtocid165605**** 25) The Rider: Technique and Tack - ****/mcrider.shtml**** 26) The Cavalry of the Mark - ****/rohan/cavalry.asp**** 27) Rohan Stables - ****/tjohns/**** 28) History of Rohan - ****/encyclopedias/wikipedia/Rohan.html**** 28) The Battles of the Fords of Isen - ****larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html**** 29) Herd Behavior - ****/infocenter/behavior/herdbehavior.html**** 29) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel - ****home.insight./cains/documentation/intro.html**** 30) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons - ****/ix.asp?qSaxon+Clothing&acnone&xx0&qidF9E6F07DECA569469C0DA165B0326794&p0&spix&fnt&b0&fo2&r10&io4&fp5&fr1&urlmahan.wonkwang.ac.kr/link/med/england/anglo-saxon/culture/dress.html&adurl**** 31) The Stirrup Controversy - ****/halsall/med/sloan.html**** 32) The Dark Ages 500-1000 AD, Warfare in the Balkans - ****members./balkandave/wbdarkag.htm**** 33) Medieval Cavalry - ****/data/dd/hce8.shtml**** 34) Cavalry - ****/milhist/modern/cav1.htm**** 35) Warfare's Slow Evolution - ****/war/evolution.htm**** 36) Medieval Seige Warfare, A Reconnaissance - ****/RESOURCES/ARTICLES/bachrach1.htm**** 37) War Tactics – Cavalry - ****/english/encyclopedia/wtcavalry02.htm**** 38) Handbook of Byzantine Military Land Forces - ****www.1jma.dk/articles/1jmaarticlesbyzantine.htm**** 39) LotR Timeline - ****/books/timeline4.asp**** 40) Arms and Armor in JRR Tolkien's Middlearth - ****/books/armor.asp**** 41)****/diseases/anemia.html#symptoms****  
42) ****dan.tobias.name/frivolity/archaic-grammar.html****  
43) ****.au/politarchopolis/library/speaking.htm****  
44)****renaissance./compendium/**

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Albert Camus - "In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."

Many thanks for your reviews and your patience as I work to complete this fan fiction.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics Site -


	22. More Prevailing than Violence

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

_Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment._

_Author's Note – This was to be the end chapter; however, since Maeve hasn't dealt with Grima directly in several previous chapters, I indulged and this chapter grew quite long. Therefore I've split it. The last piece will be posted almost directly after this one._

_This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady._

Chapter Twenty-two – More Prevailing than Violence

There is no greater or more relentless taskmaster than hope. I'd loved a man unsuitable in the hopes of seeing his redemption, turned another, nobler one away in the hopes of finding the first again and crossed two countries in my search.

Udela's birth and no more rumors of Sharkey and his henchman rising from the lands of the hobbits had dulled my optimism in ever seeing Grima again. I had not resigned myself to such a thing yet, but my doubts were great.

Now, standing in the middle of a dusty road between Bree and Chetshire with flies buzzing around my head, my lover near dead at my feet from arrow wounds and Middle Earth's greatest hero at my side, I again felt that stinging surge of belief, of resolution. It rushed through my veins in streams of fire, and I stared down at Grima's still body.

"You will live," I commanded silently. "If I must break us both in the attempt, you'll not die under my hand."

The shock of my declaration that Grima was Udela's father silenced Ailne. Even the baby ceased her protests, and the halflings stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and faint revulsion.

Frodo Baggins' cool, uninflected voice captured everyone's attention. "I would not think such a desperate creature had a woman and child who awaited him." Those eyes, deep and secretive, gazed at me in puzzlement. "He seemed one who had lost everything he'd held dear."

An aching knot wedged itself against my ribs at his words. "In his eyes, he had."

I bent to check the faint pulse at Grima's neck. "What happened?"

The halfling's tale was brief and to the point, no bard's poetry to lend it emphasis it didn't need. My eyes welled with tears. How far had this once shrewd, ambitious man had fallen. I couldn't summon a shred of regret at Saruman's fate, though I sorrowed over the notion that Grima had finally sought redemption in murder. Were I not so grateful for the chance to heal him, I might have railed at the cruelty of fate in keeping him alive to suffer.

The time for talk was finished. Under Frodo's orders the hobbits helped me clear a space in the back of Ailne's wagon. We lifted the sled and pushed Grima into the open spot. The cart horse snorted and shook its head in protest at the rank smell suddenly behind it.

Much to his companions' dismay, Frodo offered to accompany us to Chetshire. I declined.

"'Tis but a short journey and only Ailne's heavy hand on the reins to worry about."

I tied Cynwise's reins to the back of the wagon before taking Udela from Ailne. "We'll sit in the back. Drive slowly. You'll do more harm than good if you shorten the trip with speed but rattle his bones loose in the process."

Frodo's gasp was loud when I thrust Udela into his arms unexpectedly and clambered into the wagon. His eyes, wide and startled, blinked at me slowly when I motioned for him to hand the baby back to me. I smiled at the sight of my tiny child looking suddenly enormous in the arms of the small hobbit. He gave her to me gently, thin fingers stroking her swaddling with a curious touch.

"Thank you, Frodo Baggins." The words almost sang from my mouth, lyrical with relief and renewed hope. "I owe you…"

He held up a hand, his features thin with a weary resignation, as if he'd heard those three words a thousand times and had grown tired of them. "You owe me nothing. We were simply on the same road at the right moment. Fate or luck or some other fey magic at work here. Nothing more. We'll head home now."

"Then I am grateful for all three." I sat near Grima but far enough away that the flies wouldn't pester Udela. "I wish you and your kin a safe journey."

He nodded briefly and turned away. I watched the small folk diminish and finally vanish as we rattled down the road toward Chetshire.

My eagerness to return home and fear I'd lose Grima before we got there made the trip seem years long instead of an hour or so. By the time we parked the wagon at my door, the afternoon was fading, and I was desperate to tend the man I once thought lost to me.

I'd nursed and changed Udela during the return trip. She slept contented in her sling, only shifting once when I gave her to Ailne to watch. A small crowd had gathered at the wagon, curious to see what strange thing we'd brought home.

At the first hint of the stench, the villagers backed away and a few called out their greatest fear. "Is it plague?"

"No." I motioned for two of the village's lads to come closer. "A man with wounds that have poisoned."

A collective sigh of relief passed through the gathering, and the men who'd hesitated at my beckoning stepped forward and unloaded Grima from the cart.

I lead the way into the house, pushing furniture aside to make room. The men waited as I rushed in the bedchamber and pulled the pallet from the frame, along with cushions and set them on the floor near the hearth for warmth but still far enough away to be safe from stray embers.

"Lay him down on his belly. Gently."

They passed Ailne in the doorway as they left. "Niamh is watching Udela. You'll need help."

I was grateful for her aid. The task before us was monumental for two people. It would have been nearly impossible alone. Ailne built a fire outside while I cut away Grima's ruined garments. I wept silently as I stripped him, for each bit of bared skin revealed bruises and bloodied lacerations, fragile bones so close to the surface they threatened to pierce the parchment-thin flesh stretched across them. He'd been starved and beaten repeatedly.

Ailne's horrified exclamation only echoed my thoughts. "By all that's holy, Maeve, look at him! This was more than punishment. This was degradation."

I nodded but said nothing, only cut and tossed aside bits of bloodied lota, breeches and shirt until he was fully naked. Ailne gathered the ruined fabric and took it outside to burn in the fire she'd built.

The bruises and starvation bespoke a horror of their own, but it was the arrow wounds that were the greatest danger. The truly hard work began then. Ailne and I labored through the night, boiling water to clean the healer's needles and other instruments I'd acquired in both Edoras and Minas Tirith or borrowed from Ailne. The house was hot from the fire burning high in the hearth and reeked of blood and infection from the two arrow wounds I lanced and cleaned. The poison streamed down Grima's bony back in yellow rivulets threaded with watery blood.

'Twas a small blessing that Grima lay unconscious through it all. The agony of such ministrations made the strongest men scream to the heavens. Only twice did he move, a convulsive shudder that threatened to crack him in half when I cauterized the two wounds with a red-fired blade.

Ailne, who'd seen more than her fair share of blood and sorrow in her vocation, turned pale at the smell of burning flesh and fled the house. I ignored the sounds of retching and gathered my herbs and bandages to prepare poultices.

I never rested save to nurse Udela when Niamh brought her to me. The cooper's wife was a kind soul and often volunteered to watch Udela when I dealt with a sick villager.

She sat with me outside as I nursed the baby and breathed in the cool, clean air. Her expression was both avid and soft with sympathy and unabashed curiosity. "We heard he's Udela's father."

"Yes." I stroked Udela's black hair.

"Is he bad off then?"

I closed my eyes, afraid to say aloud what I feared most. "He might not live to see sunrise. I'm hoping otherwise. For Udela's sake."

Niamh's work-worn hand rested on my shoulder as she rose from the bench we shared by the door. "And yours as well, Maeve?"

Strands of hair, escapees from my plait, blew across my eyes in the sudden gentle breeze. I pushed them out of the way and peered at the cooper's wife. "I'm afraid to ask for too much."

She smiled and reached for the now sleeping Udela. "Then I will ask for you."

I kissed my daughter's forehead and put her in Niamh's arms. "Thank you, Niamh. I'll come for her in another hour or so."

The woman shrugged and tucked the baby against her shoulder. "No hurry. Whenever you're ready."

That hour became two. Grima, his wounds packed in poultices made of herbs and honey, slept wrapped in bandages and borrowed blankets near the fire. His face, made gaunt by hunger and suffering, held no rosy glow. Instead, his pallor was gray, the only hints of color a fading bruise under his right eye and another near the corner of lips leached nearly white.

"Is there anything more we should do?"

I glanced at Ailne. She didn't look much better than Grima at the moment. Hollow-eyed and almost as gray-skinned as he, she swayed on her feet from exhaustion. I imagined I looked much the same.

She smiled when I squeezed her arm. "Go home. Find your bed. You've done far more than you should have, but I'm glad you did. I don't know that I could have done this alone. He still lives because of your help."

"Do you want me to bring Udela home for you?"

"No. I'll get her."

"But what if he…"

I shrugged at her question though it was one that plagued me throughout the day and evening. "We've done all we can for now. If he's dead when I return, then it was meant to be. Standing about won't make a difference."

When she left, I walked to the sickbed and crouched down next to Grima. My fingertips mapped the valleys and ridges of his face. The faintest sigh escaped his mouth and tickled my fingers as I traced the cracked, dry lips. The next few days, even the next few hours, would be the most crucial, the ones to determine if all I and Ailne had done had been worth the effort.

"Grima," I said in a soft but stern voice. "I know you hear me. For once in your miserable life, you will do something for someone else. You will live to know your daughter." I stroked his temple where a blue vein pulsed slowly against my touch. "Do you understand? You will live, and you'll do it for your daughter."

I left him then to retrieve his offspring from my neighbor. When we returned, I hesitated at the door, fearful that when I opened it, I'd find only a breathless corpse occupying the pallet.

"Coward," I reprimanded myself and stepped inside. I didn't quell the loud sigh of relief at seeing Grima still prone but breathing. In the glow of candlelight, I dragged Udela's tiny bed out into the main room and sat it by my chair. She didn't awaken when I laid her down and covered her with a blanket knit by one of the village women as a gift. For myself, I sat down in the chair, wrapped in a blanket borrowed from Ailne and settled in for the evening. Grima had my bed, and even if there was an extra, I didn't expect to sleep. Between checking on him and waking up for Udela's feedings, I'd be lucky to get an hour's rest before dawn.

The days that followed were no less frantic or laborious than the first. I worked with single-minded purpose, changing bandages, swabbing wounds, laundering dirty bloodied linens, brewing healing draughts and watery broths. Grima remained unresponsive through most of it, only twitching weakly when his fever rose dangerously high the second night. I stripped his blankets and sponged him down with cool water, wetting his hair and cheeks finally flushed with a rosy tint.

Ailne and I took turns dribbling broth between his lips and massaging his throat to make him swallow. I worried that if the wounds didn't kill him, the lack of real food would. He was beyond thin, his skeletal frame barely making a rise under the blankets.

Nine days had passed since I'd discovered him on the road to Bree, and each day he grew a little stronger. However, those days took their toll on me. One evening as I sat and shared a pot of tea with Ailne, I slid from my chair on a wave of dizziness. From a far distance I heard the midwife's voice, concerned and annoyed, above me.

"I wondered when this would happen." She helped me stand and plopped me back in my chair none too gently. "Enough, Maeve. You'll be no good to anyone if you end up in a sickbed yourself from exhaustion."

"I'm just sleepy," I muttered, surprised at the sudden slurred quality of my words.

"Of course you are." The banging of pots and rattle of dishes sounded behind me. "You haven't a crumb of food in this house beyond what you're feeding him." More pot rattling and a bowl, half filled with broth, was slid in front of me. "Eat this and no arguments. I'll be back with something that'll stick to your ribs."

Ailne's eyes were sharp as a hawk's as she watched me lift my spoon with a shaking hand. "Do I need to feed you?"

"No." I strove to hold the spoon steady.

She nodded once. "I'll be back shortly. Don't lift Udela until you're steadier on your feet."

I'd barely managed three spoonfuls when she returned, arms laden with bread, a crock of butter and a wedge of cheese. Her expression dared me to argue with her, and I ate the food in silence. My friend and helper had become a tyrant, an insulting one at that.

"When did you last bathe?"

I no longer felt faint and consumed the bread and cheese with a ravenous appetite. The question brought me up short, and I paused with a bread slice at my lips. When had I last bathed? I strove to recall the time while I tended Grima but couldn't.

Ailne's eyebrow rose. "That's what I thought. You're starting to smell worse than him." She cocked her head in Grima's direction.

I blushed, embarrassed. "I've been busy," I muttered.

"I hadn't noticed." Her smile was conciliatory and took the sting out of her observation. "He's out of the worst of the danger, Maeve. Your vigilance need not be so consuming. Eat, bathe, and change those filthy clothes before I have to burn those too." She winked. "Udela is asleep. Now is a good time. I'll heat water for you while you eat. You have soap?" I nodded. "Good. I'll take Udela with me for the day. When you're done, you can sleep—and I mean real sleep-- for a few hours."

I heeded her commands. The hot water and soap on my gritty skin both revived and relaxed me as I sponged away days of dirt and washed my hair clean in front of the fire. I didn't worry for my modesty and stood nude as I bathed. Grima had known my body both inside and out. Were he to awaken, he'd see me little changed save for breasts made larger by nursing and a few more childbirth scars. As it was, he slept peacefully, unaware of my ablutions.

Ailne had said Grima was through the worst of his convalescence, and I agreed. Still, I made up a makeshift bed of blankets on the floor next to his pallet. At that moment I was so tired, I could have slept on a bare mountainside with a December wind howling down on me. The hard floor felt as comfortable as a down-filled pallet, and I was asleep in moment.

I don't know if it was a sound or just an awareness of a cooler house that awakened me later, but I opened my eyes to a fire burned low in the hearth and a sense of being watched. I turned my head and met Grima's pale, confused gaze.

"Grima!" I lurched into a sitting position, wincing as stiff muscles protested at the sudden movement. I wanted to shout my joy. I flung back the blankets and knelt before him, touching his face to assure myself I wasn't dreaming.

His lips moved, and he struggled to speak. I tried to shush him but he labored on until he croaked out a single word. "Maeve."

I brought him water, urging him onto his side so he could drink more easily from the cup I held to his lips. He swallowed slowly, breathing harder than a winded horse when he was done. I turned him gently to his stomach once more and pushed strands of limp hair away from his face.

He traced his lips with his tongue before speaking once more. This time his voice was no less weak, but clearer and amused. "So this is what dead men dream."

Stunned by both his sudden consciousness and his humor, I gaped at him, puzzled. His remark was curious until I followed the path of his heavy-lidded gaze and remembered I'd fallen asleep after my bath without bothering to dress. I knelt before Grima clad in nothing more than my unbound hair and the glow of low firelight.

I laughed, giddy with relief, and stood. He was truly on the mend, and tears threatened to join the laughter. I held them back and wrapped one of the borrowed blankets around me, more to stave off the chill than from some misplaced sense of modesty. "You're not dead, son of Galmod, though you stood at the threshold of Death's hall."

"Still thirsty," he whispered.

I poured more water into the cup and knelt in front of him. "Only a little more for now, or your stomach will empty itself in protest."

He groaned this time when I turned him on his side, confirmation that the pain of his wounds had come to him as an unwelcome guest. I stroked his perspiring forehead while he drank. The effort exhausted him, and his eyes were closed when I made him comfortable.

The hands I'd once admired as graceful and scholarly were now bony. One captured my fingers in a clawed grip. "Maeve Reod, you did not forget me." He spoke the last part on a sigh and fell asleep with his fingers still grasping mine.

I closed my eyes and kissed that fragile hand. "No, I didn't forget. I will never forget."

When Ailne returned with Udela, I was dressed and in the midst of adding herbs to the blood broth I'd once made for Grima at Edoras. The air was redolent with the astringent scent of juniper berries, and I hummed as I stirred the broth in the cauldron.

"Well, have we arrived at the wrong house?" Ailne's voice reflected her grin as she passed me the baby. "When I left you looked worse than your patient and bleaker than the Widow Tan's predictions for the next harvest."

"He awoke while you were gone."

Her eyebrows climbed, and she approached the pallet, crouching for a closer look at the man she helped save.

"His color is better. Much better." She glanced over her shoulder to where I stood with Udela, then back at Grima. "She has his chin as well as his hair. The shape of the eyes is the same too, I think."

I hugged my daughter. "I didn't think he'd ever know her."

Ailne rose and came to stand beside us. "One day you'll trust me enough to tell me the tale of you and this man. When you do, bring Udela. I'll brew a pot of tea."

She would never know all of it. I needed Chetshire to remain a sanctuary for both Udela and me. The stain of Grima's downfall could never go beyond Rohan's far borders. "Thank you, Ailne," I said and left it at that.

When she'd gone, I ladled the broth in a bowl and set it aside to cool. Udela lay in her bed, snuffling and snorting as she sucked on her fist. While infants so young did little more than sleep, eat and destroy swaddling, they were loud when they did it, sounding just like piglets rooting in a sty.

I lifted her and sat down in the chair to feed her. Before me, Grima slumbered. A more natural sleep than the death-like stillness of the first few days, it healed him in invisible ways that I with all my considerable skill couldn't match.

The words of my mentor echoed in my memory. "Sleep, like laughter, is a gift from the Valar, Maeve. Both are the greatest healers of men."

Once I'd fed and changed the baby, I rose to tend her father. The broth had cooled enough to eat. I now faced the challenge of finding a way to feed it to him without causing him discomfort.

Grima's eyes were open when I approached the bed. "Have you come to poison me, leech?"

Those words, once affectionately spoken in another life and another place, halted me. I breathed deeply, swallowing around the knot in my throat. "Not this time, Lord Grima. Another time perhaps."

I managed to sit him upright long enough ease him against my side so that I bore most of his weight but still kept him balanced. He managed to consume half the bowl with only a little muttering and a few spills. He stayed awake long enough for me to change his dressings and check his wounds. To the layman's eye, they still looked ghastly and would leave hideous scars, but I was pleased by my handiwork and the speed with which they healed. The bruises and lacerations, proof of Saruman's abuse, were faded as well, leaving only yellow shadows and dried scabs on pale flesh.

I wish I could say the days that followed were all ones made brighter by Grima's recovery, but that would be a lie. I was happy my erstwhile lover slowly recuperated under my care. He regained a little weight, looking less and less like a mangled scarecrow in a storm torn field. His strength returned in increments; first the ability to sit up without my support then to walk slowly from the bed to the chair and sit a few minutes. But Grima Wormtongue was a combative patient, and we clashed on many occasions.

There were times when I didn't know who was the more difficult infant, and I'd escape the house in an angry huff, leaving Grima alone and Udela with Ailne or Niamh while I sought some peace with Cynwise for company in the village's communal barn.

His behavior wasn't unique, especially among men who'd been injured and made invalid for long periods. In Grima's case, he was weak as a babe and had to be dealt with as one in many ways. At first, he needed help to eat, to sit upright, to empty his bladder, even to turn on his other side and relieve cramped muscles. I was a capable nursemaid, diligent and unfazed by the dirtier side of healing. Still, such care can leave a convalescing man feeling robbed of his manhood. I've never known a sick woman to think in such light.

He grew quarrelsome over the smallest things. The blood broth I made was too bitter, the shirt I'd borrowed for him was too large—I found it hard to bite my tongue at that one—the water for his sponge bath was too cold. I ignored most of his complaints. They were echoes of the same ones I'd heard countless times from those I'd treated in both Harad and Rohan.

We nearly came to blows over his hair one afternoon. Niamh had taken Udela for a few hours. The house was pungent with the sulfuric scent of onion, enough to make my eyes water. I'd chopped several, squeezing the juice into a bowl. Grima scowled at me from the bed, gaze suspicious as I padded the chair with towels for a more comfortable seat.

"What torture do you have planned for me today? I'm not eating that foul swill no matter its healing properties."

"It's not for eating." I said no more and approached the bed to help him stand.

He swatted at my hands. "I can stand on my own," he snarled.

So be it. It would hurt and likely tear a stitch or two that I'd have to repair, but he'd have his way, and I'd allow it. I backed away but stayed close enough to help him if needed. He saw my intention and glared. I raised an eyebrow and refused to budge.

The journey from the bedside to the table was accomplished in slow, agonized minutes with a fair amount of sweating, cursing and stumbling on Grima's part. I paced him as he shuffled to the chair. His groan of relief when he could finally sit was emphatic.

I was pleased by his progress but kept my remarks to myself. He'd only find insult in my approval of so common and small a thing as walking from bed to table. There is often a loss of dignity in helplessness.

"Why am I here if not to eat?"

He let me slowly ease the long shirt over his head and shivered as the cool air brushed his skin.

I covered his back and shoulders with more cloth. "Your hair is filthy, and you've a nasty case of lice but have been too sick for me to treat you until now." The onion juice was an effective treatment for ridding oneself of the pests. Ailne had checked me and found nothing, but to be sure I'd use the same remedy on my hair once I finished with Grima.

The son of Galmod was no fool. He saw the bowl of onion juice and tried to lurch up from the chair. I expected resistance and locked my legs against his to keep him in place. Had he been hale and uninjured, I could not have kept him there, but his injuries had taken much of his strength, and I countered his struggles with ease.

"Let me out of this chair, woman!" His fingers curled into claws, burying themselves in my skirts, seeking skin to pinch.

I slapped his arms. This was humiliating for him, something I hadn't foreseen nor ever intended.

"Grima!" I nearly shouted his name. It served to halt his struggles long enough so I could crouch in front of him. Those pale eyes burned with a cold fire. Bands of hot color stretched across his sharp cheekbones. A trickle of sweat meandered down his neck to pool in the deep hollow where his collarbones met.

I met that angry gaze and spoke an unadorned truth. "It's been many months since I shared your bed. I want to do so again when you're well." His eyes widened, losing their icy veneer. I stroked a lean bare thigh, sliding further until I cupped his bollocks gently in my palm and glided my fingers along the underside of his shaft. He hardened at my touch.

Grima Wormtongue was a frail invalid at the moment but by no means was he emasculated. I smiled and pulled my hand away to a protesting groan.

"I'm well enough now," he breathed and captured my hand, trying to bring it back between his legs."

I avoided him and rose. "No, you're not. A romp between the blankets now will undo all my good work. Besides, while I'm eager to have you between my thighs again, I'll not spread them for you while you're covered with vermin."

His pale mouth thinned to a disapproving line. "You're manipulating me." The irony of his declaration had me hiding a smile.

"I am, and I'll do it again if I must to gain your cooperation." I leaned down and rested my cheek against his. The flutter of his lips against my skin sent a ribbon of heat from my face, down my side to the place I yearned to seat him once more. "There are ways to please us both that require little effort from you," I whispered. "But none will happen until you let me deal with your hair."

A faint whimper and finally a reluctant "Fine. Be done with it then," and he acquiesced to my wishes.

While it smells foul, onion juice is an effective lice killer. Grima wasn't gracious when I told him he'd have to endure three days of such treatment. Nor was he consoled when I told him I'd share the misery with him. By the time it was done, one could smell my house from the village boundaries, and the villagers crossed the main road to avoid passing me on my daily errands.

After three days, I aired the house despite the winter cold, boiled and dried the linens, remade the beds and scrubbed my skin and hair with soap and hot water to get rid of onion reek. I was far gentler with Udela who now smelled like a leek but didn't seem to mind the scent.

Grima didn't protest when I washed his hair and gave him a real bath. I was careful with his bandages and took my time. He stood quiet in the middle of a bundled sheet before the hearth as I soaped him gently. Still thin but no longer so emaciated, he was almost as I remembered him. White, blue-veined skin and ropey muscle. Sharp hip bones and long thighs made thinner by weeks of being bed-ridden.

"I don't understand you." His voice was reedy, breathless.

I met his gaze. His statement was more a question, one with several unspoken layers; one I couldn't answer with any sense of reason. How did I explain that despite his many failures, he spoke to a part of my spirit that heard him and only him? That he, more than any muscled warrior or golden eorling, made my blood hot and my breath short?

I trailed the wet cloth across his shoulders, rinsing away the soap. "Do you have to? Is it not enough that we are here? That you are alive, and I'm glad of it?"

He had no chance to answer as I followed the trail of the cloth with my mouth and kissed a path over cool skin and curved ribs, down to a tightening stomach and finally to his groin. I'd promised him a reward if he submitted to my remedies, and I was eager to fulfill that promise.

I took him in my mouth, savored the feel of smooth skin and hard cock part my lips and slide against the sides of my teeth. I sucked and soothed and took each slow thrust as deep as I could. Thin hands buried themselves in my hair as I knelt before Grima and pleasured him, with my tongue stroking his shaft and my hands caressing his bollocks and backside. His deep groans were music timed to his thrusts and the glide of my tongue along his length.

The pulse of his cock against my tongue foretold his release. A last long moan and he filled my mouth with a salty heat. I swallowed it all, reveling in the taste. My body sang in reaction, my thighs clenching. I didn't think he'd ever understand the depth of my passion for him.

His knees buckled, and he would have collapsed had not my hands been clutching the back of his thighs to support him. His softened cock slipped from my mouth, and I gave the head a light kiss before rising to hold Grima in my arms and help him to the bed.

"I am undone," he muttered against a cushion as I dried his back and legs, changed his bandages and finally covered him with the blankets. His eyes were nearly closed, and he regarded me with a sleepy, feline stare.

"Thank you."

I stroked his still damp hair. "For what?"

"For reminding me I'm a man and not some beaten dog bound to a corrupt master."

His answer squeezed my heart in a vise, cooled the heat between my thighs. "There was never a question of your manhood, Grima, only your judgment."

"Wasn't there? You questioned it once."

I flushed with shame. The memory of my accusation in the stables at Edoras right before Grima fled to Isengard, hung heavy between us. "I spoke unwisely and from a heart hurting at your betrayal. Words can be carelessly spoken at such times. Those were."

He was almost sleep, his next words slurred and nearly incoherent.

"What compassionate gods sent you to me, Maeve Reod?"

Considering all that we'd both endured in the past year, I don't know if I'd name them compassionate. Grima's hair was drying, revealing white locks intertwined amongst the black—reminders of suffering. I spoke into the silence. "I don't know, son of Galmod, but I think they have a strange sense of wit about them."

Some might say that pleasures of the flesh offer the same benefits as the most skilled physician's remedies. In Grima's case, I was inclined to agree. After that night, he seemed to heal at a miraculous rate. I both laughed and blushed at his sly and sometimes lewd praise of my skills, as I certainly didn't limit them to that one moment before the fire. Grima became a regular recipient of my enthusiastic passions. Still, I had to laugh at some of his more outrageous praise.

"You need not have taken a hot knife to me, Maeve. Had you used your mouth from the beginning, I'd be well on my way to good health."

I rolled my eyes as I kneaded bread at the table. "I'd need the power of a goddess to bring you to life in that manner when we first brought you home, Grima. You weren't fit for crows."

His amused features sobered. "You saved me from dying."

The dough rolled beneath my hands, stretching and sliding on the floured table. "You chose to live," I sad matter-of-factly. "We needed each other to accomplish that end."

The intimacy between us grew, and I thrived in his presence as much as he seemed to thrive in mine. Ailne watched all this with a knowing expression but kept her thoughts to herself. It was a tranquil time save for one uncomfortable ripple—Udela.

Grima had noted her presence when he'd regained enough of his senses to observe more than my care and the pain of his injuries. He didn't ask about her, and I hesitated in volunteering information. I was determined he'd know his daughter, even if he left us once he healed, only now was not the moment to share such news.

He watched the baby curiously, noting the dark hair and the moments when I held her. I could see his confusion. Ailne and Niamh were often at my house to help care for her and Grima. Like me, they spoke to her in sweet, affectionate tones, and the baby responded with soft coos. Like Udela, Niamh was dark-haired and could have been mistaken for her mother. When I nursed Udela those days, it was in my bedchamber where her sounds didn't disturb him while he slept.

One morning, as Grima sat at the table, swirling his bowl of blood broth with a spoon, he looked to Udela in her bed. "I am grateful to your women for their help, but I don't understand why they'd burden you with an infant to watch. Does the dark woman not ask Ailne or another relation to help her with her child?"

I paused in tying herbs together in preparation for drying. The time for silence and deception were over. I rose from my place across from him and lifted Udela from her bed. When I sat down again with her in my lap, Grima stared at us both, puzzled.

"This is Udela", I said. I gave birth to her only a few weeks before we discovered a group of halflings pulling a sled with you on it toward Bree."

I waited. Grima's eyes widened to the size of coins before narrowing to speculative slits. I could see his thoughts reflected in his gaze, the doubt and calculations. His mouth curled into a sneer. I stiffened, preparing for battle.

"And which eorling tupped you in a corner stall of Edoras' stables?"

I'd expected it, but the insult was a punch to the gut and left me almost speechless. Almost. "The same one who sold Rohan to Saruman of Isengard," I snapped back.

Some small part of me understood his doubt and disbelief. This was Grima Wormtongue, an outcast in his country even before he was an exile. My passion for him had astonished him and sometimes confounded me if truth be known. Neither charming nor handsome and with a sly mien about him, he did not compare well to the blond good looks of his father's kin. No other woman had ever shown him the affection I had. Had he put a child in her belly, I don't think either of us doubted the unlucky girl would have sought the help of a healer like me to rid herself of that burden.

Still, I felt I'd proven my devotion beyond such doubt in ways he'd witnessed with his own eyes and others he'd not seen. I'd been faithful in body and spirit to this man. I didn't deserve such mistrust.

'You lie." The words rolled off his tongue with oily challenge, and my vision clouded red.

Heedless of his injured state or the infant in my lap, I lashed out, stopping just short of striking him across the cheek. Grima froze in place, narrowed gaze moving from the threat of my hand to my face and back again.

I lowered my arm. The warm weight of the quiet child in my lap went far in soothing my anger but not far enough to cool it completely. I would have my say, especially in the face of such an unfair charge.

"I've been called 'traitor's whore' and spat on in the marketplace because of your actions, Grima. I rode with the Rohirrim to the Pelennor and watched the fields run dark with the blood of men and orc. I patched the wounded and buried the dead until my hands blistered, all while this child grew in my belly and tempted me to retch my breakfast each morning. I refused the marriage offer of a good and noble man because I didn't want to burden him with the shame of a child begat by Rohan's most hated son."

My voice trembled even as Grima's pale face whitened. "I am many things broken and imperfect, but I'm not a liar." All the anger—the fear, the uncertainty—surged on a river of bitter bile in my throat, poisoning words I spoke but did not believe. "You know more of lies than I ever will, halfling eater."

**

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Please review.

Chapter title is taken from a quotation by Plutarch - "Perseverance is more prevailing than violence; and many things which cannot be overcome when they are together, yield themselves up when taken little by little."

Many thanks for your reviews and your patience as I work to complete this fan fiction.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names -

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - www.quantal. 4) The Thain's Book – 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics Site -

**/noflash/tour/minastirith.asp**** 6) The Reading Room - ****/readingroom/display.cfm?id1149**** 7) The Haradrim - ****harad./umbarharadrim.php**** 8) The Swan - ****/theswan/kramer2.html**** 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth - ****morrowdim./eowyn.html**** 10) Suite 101 - ****/article.cfm/4786/104920****  
11) Suite 101 - ****/article.cfm/tolkien/96689**** 12) Suite 101 - ****/article.cfm/tolkien/92091**** 13) Questia - ****/popularSearches/jrrtolkien.jsp**** 14) The Grima Dictionary - ****/dictionary.html**** 15) The Undefinable Shadowland - ****/focus/f-chat/827154/posts**** 16) The Lexicon of Rohan -****/edhellond/research/rohanpeople.htm**** (17) TolkienWiki Community - ****/wiki.cgi?FrontPage**** 18) Languages of Middle/Lesson Two: ****www32./riennoraina/lesson2.html**** 19) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English): ****/dna/h2g2/A695478**** 20) Map of Middle Earth - ****/localinks/mearth/mearthmap.html**** 21) Tolkien Maps - ****/index2.html**** 22) The Undefinable Shadowland - ****/focus/f-chat/827154/posts**** 22) A Short History of the term "Farrier" ****/advice/ryan1/thsofttr.htm**** 23) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College: Significance of the Stirrup - ****www.dicksonc..au/Showcase/ClioContents/Clio2/stirrup.html**** 24) The Legacy of the Horse – ****/imh/kyhpl2a.html#xtocid165605**** 25) The Rider: Technique and Tack - ****/mcrider.shtml**** 26) The Cavalry of the Mark - ****/rohan/cavalry.asp**** 27) Rohan Stables - ****/tjohns/**** 28) History of Rohan - ****/encyclopedias/wikipedia/Rohan.html**** 28) The Battles of the Fords of Isen - ****larsen-family.us/1066/isenfords.html**** 29) Herd Behavior - ****/infocenter/behavior/herdbehavior.html**** 29) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel - ****home.insight./cains/documentation/intro.html**** 30) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons - ****/ix.asp?qSaxon+Clothing&acnone&xx0&qidF9E6F07DECA569469C0DA165B0326794&p0&spix&fnt&b0&fo2&r10&io4&fp5&fr1&urlmahan.wonkwang.ac.kr/link/med/england/anglo-saxon/culture/dress.html&adurl**** 31) The Stirrup Controversy - ****/halsall/med/sloan.html**** 32) The Dark Ages 500-1000 AD, Warfare in the Balkans - ****members./balkandave/wbdarkag.htm**** 33) Medieval Cavalry - ****/data/dd/hce8.shtml**** 34) Cavalry - ****/milhist/modern/cav1.htm**** 35) Warfare's Slow Evolution - ****/war/evolution.htm**** 36) Medieval Seige Warfare, A Reconnaissance - ****/RESOURCES/ARTICLES/bachrach1.htm**** 37) War Tactics – Cavalry - ****/english/encyclopedia/wtcavalry02.htm**** 38) Handbook of Byzantine Military Land Forces - ****www.1jma.dk/articles/1jmaarticlesbyzantine.htm**** 39) LotR Timeline - ****/books/timeline4.asp**** 40) Arms and Armor in JRR Tolkien's Middlearth - ****/books/armor.asp**** 41)****/diseases/anemia.html#symptoms****  
42) ****dan.tobias.name/frivolity/archaic-grammar.html****  
43) ****.au/politarchopolis/library/speaking.htm****  
44)****renaissance./compendium/**


	23. From Summer up to Winter

**The Allure of the Dark Angel**

_Disclaimer - Except for the OC within this fic., everything belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien estate and anyone else who can lay legal claim to the Lord of the Rings phenomena. No money has been, is being, or will be made from this story. I write it purely for personal enjoyment._

_A/N - This fic. is not an attempt to faithfully adhere to canon, as it is also inspired by the movies and the genius of Peter Jackson. Where possible, I will make every effort to stay within the confines of Tolkien's novels. However, in my personal opinion, PJ gave Grima Wormtongue a depth of character that I did not find within the books. Therefore, this aspect of Grima is more firmly based upon the impressions I came away with of Grima Wormtongue after seeing the Two Towers. And of course, as a Grima fan, I changed his final fate somewhat._

_This fic is dedicated to the author, Warlady._

Chapter Twenty-three – From Summer up to Winter

The capacity for cruelty isn't limited to the reprehensible. The most virtuous among us have been known to draw blood with carefully sharpened words, and I am far from virtuous.

I flinched the moment the accusation left my lips. Grima's pinched, sneering features went lax, and his eyes widened. I don't know which of us was more shocked by the venom in my accusation.

I clutched Udela to me, unaware of the ferocity of my grip until she mewled in protest and squirmed in my arms. I loosened my hold and kissed her forehead in apology, but my gaze never left her father as he rose carefully from the chair to make his slow way back to the makeshift bed by the hearth. His gaze avoided mine though I caught glimpses of a darkness there that had nothing to do with Dunlending bloodlines.

The apology I wanted to offer stayed trapped in my throat. The greater part of me shuddered at the harshness of my response. It was vengeance, nothing more. I wanted to strike out at Grima. He'd betrayed Rohan and also me. I and so many others had seen so much death and suffering because of his actions. I was sympathetic to his wounds, hurt with him as he struggled to regain some semblance, not only of health but also humanity after Saruman's abuses. Still, the lesser part of me wasn't satisfied and inwardly howled its approval when I named him halfling eater and watched him recoil.

For the briefest moment I was both triumphant and relieved. It was a way to lance my own wounds and let the resentment—the rage—seep from my soul, but I'd cut us both in the process.

Grima huddled beneath the blankets, his back to me. The blood broth I'd prepared sat forgotten on the table, congealing in its bowl. I swallowed back tears, lifted Udela to my shoulder and tossed the bowl's content out near the back stoop.

It was a winter's night, clear and cold. I was tempted to linger, to watch the stars, forget my troubles and escape the suffocating silence in my small, onion-scented house. Udela rooted at my neck, and I closed the door.

Grima never moved as I walked past him and took the baby to my bedchamber to nurse her. Once I'd attended to her needs and put her down to sleep in her bed, I returned to my place at the table and resumed binding bundles of winter mint to dry. Only the snap of embers in the fireplace interrupted the silence. Were I not watching him closely, I might have thought Grima asleep, but there was no mistaking the quick rise and fall of his back as he breathed or his posture, stiff and brittle as an icicle, beneath the blankets.

Time passed, measured only by the whispered snap and pull of string as I bundled herbs. Udela snuffled in her bed, and Grima breathed in stuttering gasps in his. I gathered my herbs and set them aside, replacing them with those things I needed to tend healing wounds.

"Grima." I approached the bed, new bandages and cloths in my arms. "I need to tend your wounds." I didn't think he could stiffen any further, but his thin form tightened beneath the blankets, the pop of bone joints loud in the quiet air.

Undeterred, I twitched back the concealing bedclothes to expose his back. Grima hissed in protest and flipped onto his stomach. I almost recoiled at the face he turned to me—eyes slitted and mouth turned down in a scowl of waxen malice. Only the shadows in those eyes kept me from turning away. Desolation and the despair of a withering soul. I'd wrought more damage with my words than I could have imagined.

I am where I first started," he spat. "Only now I cower at the foot of a queen who rules a hovel for a kingdom."

The wounds on his back were healing nicely. It was those on his spirit and heart I had to contend with now, and I wondered if those were well beyond my abilities to mend. He sucked in a breath when my fingers threaded through his hair. "And still, you seek to rule, even to your own detriment," I said gently.

His lips parted, whether to counter my remark or simply in bewilderment of my actions, I couldn't say, but he held his peace after that and let me tend him. Those wounds not cauterized had closed cleanly, needing only my carefully sewn stitches removed. The others were healing more slowly, as I expected from their original grave condition. I worked swiftly, cleaning the edges of scarring flesh, repacking the poultices and bandaging his back. He accommodated my unspoken command to sit up as I rewrapped his torso to hold the bandages in place. I felt his gaze on me and paused to meet it with my own.

"Do you believe what you said?" The dread in his eyes belied the cool tones of his question.

I nearly closed my eyes, relieved. I didn't ask absolution of him. I felt just in striking out at his accusation but wretched at the depth of my own malice in the manner of my defense. He'd opened a dialogue between us once more.

He scowled at my short laugh. "Grima, had you been able to stand when I found you on that road, I'd have seen sunlight through you, and that's without the benefit of the holes the hobbits put in your back." His lids fluttered down when I reached out and ran a finger across one closed eye. His lashes were soft against my skin. "I'd have trouble believing you ate a halfling's chicken, much less an entire halfling."

"Saruman almost brought me that low."

"That I can believe."

My turn to question him had come, and I repeated the one he leveled at me. "Do you believe what you said?"

That pale gaze darted to Udela's bed then back to me. He answered with a question of his own. "Was it Swidhelm, son of Hunwald who offered you marriage?"

I reared back in surprise. "You remember him?"

"Oh, I remember him."

My heartbeat jumped at the faint jealousy in Grima's voice. "Aye, it was him."

"Would you have accepted were you not carrying a child?"

My jaw tightened at "a child," instead of "my child." I strove for patience and reminded myself the news of sudden fatherhood would overwhelm any man and especially this man.

"I don't know that he would have offered were I not."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Nor you mine."

He glanced at the baby's bed once more. "Do not think me unaware of your devotion, Maeve, though I will never understand why."

"Because I love you," I replied silently.

His brow stitched together in a frown. "This though…a daughter. It's difficult…"

He halted his search for an explanation when I placed my fingertips on his mouth. He kissed them softly.

"When you're ready, I'll introduce her again. She has your hair and the shape of your eyes."

Grima nodded. We'd reached a truce. He did not reject Udela outright, nor did he press me for an answer regarding Swidhelm. In all honesty, were I not carrying Grima's child and all other circumstances were the same, my answer to the horselord's proposal might well have been yes.

As I prepared my small household for bed, Grima called to me from his pallet.

"Is this not your bed, Maeve Reod?"

Puzzled, I crouched down beside him. "It was. I'll take it back once you're healed."

"I'm healed enough now to share it."

A coaxing gleam entered his eyes, and he pulled back the blankets to tempt me. His sly chuckle elicited one from me as I stood abruptly, kicked off my shoes and shrugged out of my cyrtel and leine in less than two breaths.

I dove beneath the covers and curled against his slender body. He sucked in a breath at the touch of my cold skin against his much warmer flesh. He rolled atop me, and I immediately spread my thighs to nestle him closer.

His sharp cheekbones dusted with color at my moan.

"This is good," I whispered. "I've missed your weight upon me."

His mouth found mine in kisses both deep and sweet. I drank him in, as if he were water and I a parched traveler. I'd had the taste of him for days now, but not his mouth on mine and reveled in such intimacy, often greater than a coupling itself.

Pale hands rediscovered me, touching, exploring, making me squirm until I begged Grima to ease the ache between my thighs.

That vulpine smile lingered when he grasped my hips and pulled me closer, sinking into me with a satisfied groan, one I matched with fervor. I'd longed for this, ever since those early days at the Meduseld when the king's counselor first took me to his bed.

Slow thrusts and long, drugging kisses, thin fingers laced in my hair—I'd dreamed of such things many times and embraced an even better reality. There'd be bruises on my thighs in the morning, marks from the sharp angles made by his hips. I'd wear more on my neck and breasts, even my hips from the grip of his fingers and scrape of his teeth—and I'd wear them with a gloating, triumphant pride, for I'd found my lover again and welcomed him home.

I don't know where he found the stamina for it, but he loved me through the night, finally falling into an exhausted sleep just after dawn. I'd interrupted his attentions twice in the night so Udela could nurse and felt his eyes on us as I stayed in the main room to feed her.

When Ailne came to visit later that morning, her eyebrows rose and her mouth stretched into a knowing grin. "By the look of you, he's obviously feeling better."

I grinned in return and set a kettle of tea to boil. "He's sleeping at the moment."

"Wore him down, did you?"

"I hope so."

We laughed together and enjoyed each other's company until the kettle was emptied and I set another one to heat. When Grima woke, Ailne took Udela outside for a few months, returning to find him dressed and seated at the table. They introduced themselves to each other, and Grima surprised us both with his command.

"Give me the baby."

Ailne hesitated and glanced at me. I nodded my consent, and she gingerly handed Udela to him. He took her deftly, unafraid of the fragile being now in his arms. Father and daughter stared at each other for long, silent moments. Grima touched the spiky ends of her black hair and stroked her chin, a softer, rounder version of his. When she smiled and cooed, revealing the dimple in her cheek, his mouth curved faintly, and he gave me a sidelong glance.

"I've seen that mark before."

He passed her back to Ailne. "I can only hope she didn't inherit my poor judgment."

I hid my triumphant grin behind my cup and sipped my tea. He'd accepted her. It was a start.

Grima healed steadily in my care, and I blossomed in his company. He was still the sly, waspish creature I'd always known. His introduction to the villagers was met with caution. Some of the older men would join him on the bench outside my door as he sat wrapped in blankets, soaking up the winter sunlight. He was civil and never turned away their company but was quick to verbally slice them to silence if they asked too many personal questions.

He'd introduced himself as Grima, son of Valandir of Gondor. The villagers took him at his word, and I didn't gainsay him or reveal that Valandir had been my father, not his. They found him a curiosity at first, the invalid husband of the village's new healer. That image changed as he grew stronger.

While Grima was not the horseman his eorlinga kin were, his skills in the saddle were superior to any of the men in Chetshire and likely the entire area. They'd been witness to his prowess when he exercised Cynwise for me and took her for runs in the nearby meadows.

I loved my agreeable mare and trusted Grima's handling of her. That, and I pitied his restlessness at times. I never forgot his remark when once we sat together outside, he to breathe the fresh air and keep me company while I mended clothing.

"The trees—they are suffocating sometimes."

For a man born and raised on the wide grasslands of the Mark, such a feeling was imprisoning.

"Take Cynwise," I said, my needle flying through the hem of one of my leines. "There's a meadow less than an hour's ride from here. While not the Mark, it's open to the sky. You can both stretch your legs there."

He needed no further coaxing, and I didn't see him until evening, when he entered the house, wind-flushed and bright eyed, looking far more Rohirrim than he ever had at Edoras.

There were times when he'd look east with a melancholic gaze. Rohan was closed to him forever. She'd never fully accepted him as a true son, and he'd betrayed her to Saruman and the menace of Sauron. Generations of eorlingas would live and die before any said the name Grima Wormtongue without a curse attached to it. Still, I knew he missed the lands of his birth and surely regretted the failure of all his aspirations.

I missed the Mark as well. It had been my home for almost a decade. I'd buried a husband and a child there, loved another man and conceived his child beneath her windy skies. Chetshire was a good place, cloaked in its own beauty, but Grima and I longed to hear the sound of horse herds running on the plains, and I missed the women who'd seen me through my darkest hours there.

The man who'd been nearly broken by Saruman's corrupt hand, rose up again and began to thrive. He found his place in the village, first as a trainer of horses. When it became known he was uncommonly well-read, many sought his advice or his knowledge of documents and matters of legal import. It wasn't long before he became a member of the village council and then its chief councilor. Ambition does not abandon a man like Grima until death.

I never asked him to stay with me and never told him to leave. I felt my actions would give him the answers he sought. Only once did he express any lingering doubt as to my willingness to have him with me beyond his convalescence.

One day, in the summer following my discovery of him on the road to Bree, I'd ridden with Grima to the nearby meadow. We'd lazed in the sun, eaten lunch and splashed naked in the small hidden spring wedged against an outcropping of rock. It flowed into a shallow stream that meandered along the southern side of the tree line and was sometimes visited by the villagers during high holy days.

I was in the midst of running soapy hands over Grima's shoulders and thoroughly enjoying myself when he grasped my wrists. Sunlight brightened blue highlights in the darkness of his hair and gleamed in the equally white locks gracing his temples and the midline of his scalp. I lost my smile at his somber expression.

"You cannot bathe away all my transgressions, Maeve Reod."

I stared at him, at the hair made white by those transgressions, and the eyes made weary. "I'd never attempt such a thing, Grima Wormtongue." I kept my words measured, firm. This was no time for pity. "You've earned the burden of your ambitions. Neither of us has the right to wash them away."

Shadows shifted in his eyes. "You were never one to pity me, Maeve."

"Had I pitied you, I would have cut your throat to end your suffering at Bree." I curved my palm against his jaw. "You don't have to bear your burden alone, Grima."

He kissed me then and took me on the spring's grassy banks. While I cannot be sure—I shared Grima's body and his bed quite often—I'd like to believe our son was conceived there.

From that day onward, not only did he refer to Udela as his daughter but me as his wife. He stayed with me through the hours I labored to birth his second child, though I wondered if Ailne might have to pick him up from the floor from a faint.

When she placed the baby, cleaned and swaddled in his arms, Grima stared at him, his waxen features thin with a cautious awe. Exhausted from my labor, I struggled to stay awake so I could watch this first greeting between father and son.

Grima glanced at me, a bitter half-smile curving his lips. "I know of no men who'd approve my naming this child after them. You choose." He paused, and the half smile changed to a mock frown. "Only not Swidhelm."

I laughed softly, careful not to disturb already battered insides. "What of the name Ælle? For my friend Wulfrune and the husband she loved."

He nodded. "A good name. It means 'Name of kings.' There are worse things to aspire to in life."

I could reminisce for ten lifetimes over the span of mine and Grima's, for it is a comfort to the old like me. I bore two more children who didn't live beyond their first breaths. I think that more than arrow wounds and a fall from grace aged Grima. By contrast, Udela and Ælle grew up hale and strong, each with gifts of their own and those inherited from their parents.

Unlike her namesake, Udela was content to remain in Chetshire and train with me. It was Ælle who carried a wanderer's blood in his veins, and he who traveled to Rohan, returning a soldier with older, wiser eyes, to tell us of those things both changed and unchanged in that far country.

I never saw Elswide or Wulfrune again, though my son made inquiries and learned they'd lived long and died within a year of each other. He met Sunniva, a respected healer who served the family of King Eomer.

Grima lived to see his son and daughter married and the birth of four of six grandchildren. I sometimes laughed to myself at his incredulous expression when the entire brood descended on our house, bringing with them chaos and noise. Though he never commented, I knew he wondered how he'd found himself in such a predicament—this outcast and exile who'd failed at some many things, yet triumphed in so many others.

As with any couple, we two loved and clashed, sometimes sleeping with our backs to the other, more often wrapped in each other's arms. He slipped away from me one night, cradled against my breast, his death far more peaceful than his life. Four years have passed, and I haven't stopped my grieving, though now it is deep within me and as much a part of me as the beat of my heart.

"Mother, why are you standing there?"

Udela's voice draws me out of my pool of memories. I don't know how long I've stood in my doorway, admiring the night sky. The moon still hangs like a bone medallion secured on an invisible cord, and the air has grown colder.

I look to my daughter. She's ventured down the road from her house, and I can see the worry in her face. "Why are you roaming the streets of Chetshire at this hour?" I counter.

"I don't know." She shrugs, and I am reminded strongly of her father and the way he did the same thing when he sought to hide his true intent. "I just thought I'd check on you."

I take her hand. "Since you're here, come help me to bed. My bones hurt."

"I'm not surprised. You should be in front of the fire, not catching your death in the doorway."

She helps me dress in my nightclothes, ignoring my frustrated muttering at the uselessness of my gnarled hands. I shuffle to my bed and slide under the blankets.

"Your fire's gone out. Give me a moment, and I'll rebuild it."

Listening to Udela bustle around the house in which she was born is a comfort. "Don't forget to give Ailne those juniper berries I dried."

Her voice is patience itself. "I did, Mother. Yesterday. You were with me."

I frown. For all that I can recall a lifetime of events, I have trouble remembering the details of yesterday.

With the fire stoked and my blankets tucked in, Udela straightens my already uncluttered room and bends to kiss my forehead.

I grasp one of her hands. "These are fine hands," I say. "Healer's hands."

"My mother's hands," she replies and squeezes my bent fingers gently. "I'll be by in the morning."

My eyelids are heavy. I don't hear the door close when she leaves.

Dreams have been a source of sadness and comfort these four years, and tonight they are particularly vivid. I stand on a sloping hill. Before me stretches not a green country, but one golden, with tides of grass undulating beneath a summer sun. I can hear the thunder of hooves in the distance.

From the rise of tall grass, I see a horseman leading a horse behind him. He is a sloe shadow reflected on a burnished sea.

"Maeve Reod," he calls, and his voice is a sibilant caress. "Have you finally come to meet me, leech?"

"Yes," I say. "Oh yes." I laugh and hold out my hand.

* * *

**~End~**

Please review.

Chapter title is taken from the song Na Laethe Bhi (The Days That Were) by Clannad - "Bí liom a storing, Samhradh go geimhreadh, Rún mó mhíle stór. – _I had a sweetheart, From summer up to winter, My dearest love_."

This is a beautiful song, and I highly recommend it to anyone to listen to it. You can hear Na Laethe Bhi on youtube. Just type in Clannad Na Laethe Bhi in the Search window. It will bring it up for you. The rest of the CD (Banba) is just as good.

My sincerest thanks to all who have read and reviewed this tale. It's been several years in the writing and a joy to write.

Except for Maeve and the Tolkien characters, other character names are taken from the following sources:

1) Anglo Saxon Names - www. 2) Female Anglo-Saxon Names - www.

Other resources: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda - .com 2) Terms used in Traditional Chinese Medicine - .com 3) Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe - ..uk 4) The Thain's Book – .net 5) Lord of the Rings Fanatics – .com, 6)The Reading Room – .com, 7) The Haradrim – .net/umbar_, 8) The Swan – .net/~theswan, 9) Eowyn of Middle Earth – ., 10) Suite 101 – , 11) Questia – .com, 12) The Grima Dictionary – .com, 13) The Undefinable Shadowland – .com, 14) The Lexicon of Rohan – .com/edhellond/research/rohan_, 15) TolkienWiki Community – .org, 16) Languages of Middle Earth/Lesson Two – .com, 17) BBC – h2g2 – Anglo-Saxon (Old English) – ./dna/h2g2/A695478, 18) Map of Middle Earth – ., 19) Tolkien Maps – .com

20) The Undefinable Shadowland – .com/f-chat/827154/posts 21) A Short History of the term "Farrier" – .com 22) Journal of Ancient and Medieval History at Dickson College – Significance of the Stirrup – ..au 23) The Legacy of the Horse – .org 24) The Rider: Technique and Tack – .com 25) History of Rohan – www. 26) The Battles of the Fords of Isen – /~ 27) Herd Behavior – .com 27) Documentation of the Dress – An Anglo-Saxon Cyrtel – . 28) Clothing and Appearance of the Pagan Anglo-Saxons – .


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